


Revelations

by AsTheDayDies



Series: Dragon Age Tales [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dialogue Heavy, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Includes ART!, Includes MUSIC!, NSFW, Non-Canon Relationship, Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Slowmance, Smuff, Smut, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 159,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3411368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsTheDayDies/pseuds/AsTheDayDies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For hundreds of years, humans have proven themselves to be simple, shallow beings with thoughts only of themselves, willing to sacrifice thousands of years of precious history for the sake of a moment of convenience. This was his reality. This was his history. Until a fellow Mage with wisdom beyond her years, her kind, stepped into his plans.</p><p>NSFW chapters marked individually. Here there be spoilers!</p><p>NOW includes original ART & MUSIC!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Mhmm, well, thank you to all of my fellow Facebook Dragon Age Fanfiction Writers as you are terribly wonderful enablers. This, dear friends, is for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **listen to 'In Dreams' from the LOTR soundtrack for a fun effect** :-)

The dreams were the worst. 

In them, he saw her again and again, revisited every act of kindness, every time she surprised him with sage advice, each moment she chipped away at his prejudice with genuine interest in him, in his beliefs, in his friends in the Fade. She was an enigma, and yet anathema. But that could not be - he craved knowledge and the power that accompanied it. He would know the real reasons for her involvement, what her true motives were. And he would be right, as he always was. He would expose her reality, a human caught up in the power of the Anchor, engorged with the Fade. 

And so each night, he studied events of the past, hovering around the memories, studied each interpretation and retelling the Fade had to offer him. He had found nothing yet, and it frustrated him. 

He pushed through, pausing only a few moments to converse with a few of his friends. Joy did not stay long, eager to be off aiding others as they slept. He lingered a bit with Trust as It always had the most fascinating tales. When he found Wisdom, he stopped. 

The benevolent spirit was hovering around her dreams again. Wisdom bobbed around the edges of her subconscious, peering into her visions with interest. His thin brows knit together as he stepped quietly closer. 

"Good evening, my friend," he greeted with a half bow. 

Wisdom looked up and smiled, happy to see him again. She spoke in the language of spirits, an ancient tongue that he knew too well. 

"Really?" he responded, one brow arched. "Well, no doubt someone exposed to such great power over the Fade would gain interest with the spirits, especially considering she is a Mage." 

Wisdom replied, a quicker lilt and impassioned sincerity in her tone, gesturing with her arms to emphasize her point. A slender finger drew an arch, then pointed into her dream. 

The back of his neck prickled. "A strong argument. One that requires a great deal of evidence before I can make that judgement. Though, I always value your opinion." He slipped his hands behind his back, keeping his face neutral, attempting to keep doubt from showing on his slender features. 

She seemed to laugh, her watery voice gurgling as she looked at him a motherly gaze. A reply trickled over her lips, and suddenly she was gone, dissipating into the Fade. 

Solas waited, peering in through the edges of her dream. In them, the soul itself could be studied. Here it was raw, fluid, and ever reacting to the subtle injection of spirits or memories. What had interested Wisdom so? Or perhaps had she been testing her dreams as well? 

Lissa Trevelyan sat at a rough, wide desk, the chair inanely huge, making her appear like a small child. _A reflection on how she feels about her place of elevation, perhaps?_ A great map was spread out in front of her, and she peered over it, her hands pressed into her temples. He could not make out the details from here, but assumed it was related to her heavy considerations of the war table. 

"I don't understand . . . I'm not sure what to do," she lamented, shaking her head as she moved a marker. 

"Perhaps it would be easier if you cut loose some of your struggles," a nameless soldier suggested as he passed by, carrying a load of armor. 

"I'm sure it would!" she agreed quickly, but shook her head. "But easy is not always best. This is just ... so confusing to me." 

Curiosity prodded him, and he breached the border of her visions with a single stride. He would be a generic addition, a watcher, nothing more. She looked up as he entered, her eyes rested on him for an uncomfortably long moment. With a simple wave of his hand, he shrouded himself, and she peered back down at the map. His bare feet crossed the thick piled carpet till he neared the desk, and leaned in over her shoulders. 

_Well, how interesting!_

Beneath her was indeed a map, and it was laid out in similar fashion as the one stretched out on the war table. But this map was also overlaid with faces of those she knew, and of ones she imagined. Iron Bull, Dorian, Vivienne . . and even he appeared on the ethereal map. Hand written notes were scrawled all over, as well as symbols and arrows between a few. A jagged, crawled line scored a divide between Cole and Vivienne. It seemed she had made a note to try and keep the two apart, as his presence disturbed the Circle Mage, and she wanted to keep Cole safe. 

"What is it you are deciding?" 

She titled her head, examining the parchment in earnest. "For reasons I cannot understand, they want me to decide who should become our allies. As if my sanction holds any weight! Are they incapable of making such decisions on their own? They have so much more experience, why not rely on their tested capabilities?" 

"Perhaps because it is something for which they fear to share the responsibility. The more likely reason is, of course, that whether they are religious or not, it seems some authoritative power has placed you at the center, and therefore you are important." 

She sighed. "But that doesn't make me any less human. I can still make mistakes. Would I remain so 'divine' if I fail them? What if they disprove of my decision?" 

He pulled up a chair, resting his chin on his the back of his hands. "Tell me, what are your thoughts on the matter as it stands now." 

"Well," she began, tucking a rough curl behind her short, smooth ear, "I had considered pursuing the Mage's assistance." He nodded in agreement, it being his own preference for various reasons. "But I do not believe there to be enough power in magic alone to seal the breach." 

His nose wrinkled. "And why do you say that?" 

"Because it is not something we even understand! I have been in the Circle nearly my entire life. And even Vivienne, with her status and training, does not have a solution. If the solution were in magic alone, we would have found it by now." 

"Simply because you doubt your own abilities as a Mage does not mean you should discount their abilities as a whole." 

"I don't doubt their abilities," she added, her shoulders collapsing with frustration. "I doubt it's abilities _alone!_ Right now, there is only one thing that has shown any ability at closing the rifts." 

"You?" 

To his surprise, she scoffed. "Me. Yes, that is what they all seem to think, isn't it? No, not me. This mark, whatever it is. And no one even knows what it is. Whichever decision I make ultimately must come down to the preservation of this, our only hope of salvation." She stuck out her hand, looking at it with disgust. It seemed more a curse than a savior. 

"And is it not convenient that it is also a part of you? Is it not convenient that it's preservation is intricately tied to your own?" 

She looked up at him quizzically. "Is it? How do we know? It was not always a part of me. Why do we assume it must always be?" 

"True, but it seems connected to your individual energy. To remove it I fear would result in your death." 

Gravely, she looked down at the map. "Yes, that may be the case. So I've been considering the options. Who would take this mark and make the best use of it?"

"What? You can't be serious." His angular features cinched together in disbelief. It was a preposterous plan, but that she was willing to make it spoke much about her character.

"I am extremely serious. There is so much that hangs in the balance. Everything, from the Fade to the waking world would be tainted, destroyed. Why should my own life be protected at the possible cost of everything in existence, just because of unfortunate coincidence? If someone . . anyone . . . could make better use of it . . . could actually solve it . . . isn't that the right decision?" 

He steepled his long, slender fingers, eyes roving over the map and the souls for which it was marked. "If someone else were to have this anchor, who would you choose? This mark seems to draw to itself a host of unfortunate events; would you also pass that along to someone else?" 

"No, I wouldn't," she shook her head, letting loose tendrils of messy waves to hang loosely around her round face. She began drumming her fingers against the wood anxiously, her thoughts swirling about. The more earnestly she considered her options, the more soldiers appeared in the background, the quicker their steps, as if each represented a single thought swimming about in her dream. 

"Then it seems you must make the choice of an ally, instead."

"And that is the biggest struggle! Should we set the brightest minds out to studying the mark, risking time and lives in the process, or should we pour or efforts directly in the sealing of the rift, without any expectations of success while risking our only chance?" She looked down at her palm, gripping it into a fist. For a mortal human, she was taking the situation with more grace and consideration than he expected. She was so often quiet among the group, he had wondered what had been going on in her private thoughts. Now it seemed she carried the weight of their very lives on her shoulders, including the fate of the rest of the world. 

And the Fade, he reminded himself, her concern endearing her to him a bit more. 

"It seems you have a lot to deliberate upon. What will you decide?" 

"I don't know." She lifted her face, and her expression slowly brightened. "But my friends are good advisors. I shall ask them, and they'll help me." 

"Ah!" he replied with interest, "And whom shall you ask?" 

"Well, I probably ask all of them a little. Cassandra and Cullen know a great deal about the abilities of Templars. And if I want to know about the capabilities of Mages," he sat straighter, awaiting his name, "I will probably talk to Vivienne." He grimaced at the name. But of _course_ she would trust the advice of a Circle Mage and a human more than she would trust him. It was the sort of behavior he was looking to confirm. Smug disappointed weighed down his shoulders, but he had been correct, just as he expected. 

"After all," she continued, "most of the Mages we would recruit would have been from a Circle. I suspect any of the Apostate Mages that were roaming before the Circles Fell are in hiding, away from any of the rogue Templars."

In that, she had a point. He was perhaps the only Apostate Mage who voluntarily appeared at their doorstep. Every other Apostate that still possessed a shred of sanity or dignity would not be out engaging in this pointless war. They would be hiding. 

"If I ask the Apostates to suddenly turn up at the Inquisition's call, I don't think they would trust us. What reason have we given them yet to not be afraid?" 

He studied her features, bore into her gaze for any sign of falsehood. But there was found none. Her eyes were heavy with burden and lack of rest, and he entertained a moment of guilt for disturbing her dreams in this manner. He started to rise, to leave her to her dreams, but then she spoke. 

"And of course, I shall have to ask Varric's opinion on the matter." 

"Him? Whatever for?" he crossed his arms, almost daring her to provide a worthy answer. 

She smiled, a gentle crescent to her full lips. "Of all my friends, he sees the people the most, including myself. I don't often include myself into the calculations, but Varric reminds me why that is a bad idea. He reminds me that people need me, and not just because I'm a convenient symbol of Divine intervention; he sees me, and reminds me how people actually need that. Need me," she added quietly, taking comfort in some small affirmation of value. 

For a moment, he felt shame at dismissing Varric's counsel. "Well ... that is an important thing to remember. While your position is both unfortunate and unique, you do bring a certain ... quality to the Inquisition that it would be missing without you." 

She chuckled darkly, leaning back into her ridiculously large chair and sighed. "Varric says it would be a terrible idea if something were to happen to me, as if all of Thedas would suddenly catch fire." She laughed, pulling her knees to her chest. "Mostly because Cassandra would go mad on a rampage."

Solas would have chuckled, had it not been too hard an image to conjure in his mind. 

"I can help them," she said tenderly, reaching out graze a hand over the map. "I want to help them." 

"And I'm sure you will." He rose, watching as she pulled up her feet and began pouring over the map of those she held most dear. "Are you not beginning to feel drowsy?" 

"Not really I . . . " He raised his palm, changing the energy of the dream with the Fade, using the energy to cradle her in a soothing embrace. " . . . yes, I think I do feel tired." Slowly, she slumped to the side, resting her head on her bent arm. He reached out to grab a nearby cloak, and draped it over her full form. The number of soldiers milling about trickled to a halt, and even the lighting dimmed to reflect the quietness of her mind.

"Then sleep." He watched as her dark lashes fluttered shut, and her mouth gaped in a weary yawn. He turned, about to step through the barrier of her subconscious, when she offered one final, drowsy reply. 

"Thank you . . . Solas."


	2. Melodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ART & MUSIC included in the notes <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be Lissa Trevelyan, the dear. <3  
> 

Camp was strangely quiet when she woke, and Lissa was surprised to find Cassandra still asleep next to her. Usually, she was startled away by the clash and clank of metal of the determined warrior sparring before breakfast. But she felt refreshed and rested, and her mind was even awake and alert. "Weird," she wondered, "but I'll take it. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a morning person?" If so, she could get used to it. Gingerly, she set about dressing, slipping the robes over her shoulders and carefully picking up her staff. Just as she was about to exit the tent, her toe caught on Cassandra's foot, hiding beneath the blankets. She covered her mouth to keep from exclaiming in shock, and froze in mid-stride, hoping to the Maker she hadn't disturbed her companion's sleep. But the woman simply grunted, rolling over and resuming the deep breaths of sleep. Lissa let out a sigh, only to be startled by a shocking sound, growling and gurgling.

"Is she...," she looked at Cassandra quizzically, watching as the rise and fall of her chest synced with the terrible sound, "...snoring?"

She covered her mouth tighter, suppressing laughter. Her lungs began to ache with the effort and she quickly slipped outside. She allowed herself a private chuckle, but not at Cassandra's expense; she thought it endearing, and made her seem more approachable, more vulnerable. With a parting grin, she ventured out into the damp cool of morning.

Crickets chirped out in the tall grass in the distance and only the shuffle of soldiers on watch broke the stillness. She took a moment to stretch her hands toward the fire, soaking up the warmth in her palms. Sometimes, she thought it odd how the mark had not affected her sense of touch, at least not yet. With her right hand, she traced around the flickering hem of green light, feeling a shiver creep up her spine. She could feel the Fade, feel the magnetism of its pull. If she would just close her eyes . . .

"Did you sleep well?" a familiar, gruff voice greeted, startling her from her reverie.

"Good morning, Varric," she said with both exasperation and relief. "You startled me."

He sat down on an overturned log, a simple breakfast of dried meat and hardtack in his hands. "You seem pretty deep in thought for first thing in the morning." He kept his voice low, not wanting to wake those who still slept.

"Well, I did sleep great, actually," she said with grin.

"Ah," he said nodding his head as he turned the bit of dried meat towards the fire, "you finally took my advice for a Tethras cocktail? It's the Elfroot, isn't it?"

She made a disgusted face and shook her head. "Varric, if I drank that, I might never wake up." He chuckled, tearing into the warmed jerky with his teeth. "No, I just . . . had good dreams, I guess. So often lately I haven't been able to sleep." She met his eyes, looking up from under her dark brows and admitted quietly. "I've got a lot on my mind."

Varric scoffed, gesturing with the stiff strip of meat in his hand. "That is no secret. Sometimes I'm surprised you ever sleep. Especially with the candle on your hand."

She chuckled, looking at the mark in her palm. "Well, it _does_ double as a nice reading lamp in the tent."

"Is that why you're up so late? Reading?"

Her round cheeks blushed, barely visible next to the firelight. It was not a particularly exciting hobby, and with her poor eyesight, not an attractive one. "Well . . . only sometimes."

He arched an eyebrow, chewing the jerky like cud.

"Okay, okay . . . I probably read often. Maybe . . . every night," she admitted sheepishly. "But I can't sleep anyway so I might as well do something!" she defended. "Besides, _Varric_ ," she said his name pointedly, with comic accusation, " _you_ ought to know how easy it is to escape in a book."

One corner of his lip curled in a grin. Indeed, he did. Necessary at times, he imagined, what with the literal weight of the world - and the next - on her shoulders.

The shuffle of noise increased and the first hint of morning light began to crest over the horizon. Soldiers began their daily routine of packing supplies and switching the morning watch. The birdsong became ever more energetic, and soon she knew the small camp would be a hub of bustling activity.

"I think I'll take a walk before we head out."

"What? Not enough walking for you planned out the rest of the day?"

She made a face in response, and he chuckled, waving her on.

With ginger steps, she waded into the tall grass. The further she strolled, the heavier the hem of her robes became, soaked with morning dew. In the sky, purple faded to pink, and at the center, a brilliant orange orb hung, now above the lavender mountains. A light wind tugged at her bright, rich curls, caressing her cheeks. It was a rare treat to enjoy the beauties of morning as she was normally a night owl and a terrible sleeper. It was sort of a running camp rule not to speak to the Herald until after breakfast. It had been so long since she had slept so soundly, she forgot how much it changed her outlook on the day for the better. She watched as a few leaves fell languidly to the damp ground, as the bows slowly swayed in the breeze. She turned to spy over one shoulder, and once she was convinced no one was in earshot, she began to sing.

 

* * *

 

Solas stared at the starry sky as he lay still on his bedroll, silently wading through his simmering thoughts. Sleep eluded him, but it was no matter. He was not tired anyway. It was nearly a full moon, he noted, and spirits were restless on these nights. Finally, he rose, packing up his bedroll with practiced fingers, adding it to the meager pack of supplies he carried. He started off into the cool dark of early morning, feeling the shifts in the energies as the moon began to give way to the sun, and creatures of the day began to stir. It was not like it was before his long sleep, but there was still beauty in this world, he conceded. Languishing the slick tendrils of wet grass as they brushed against his ankles, he waded deeper into the damp morning. And as he walked, he wondered.

According to her dream, Lissa had been considering allying with the Templars. "No," he corrected himself, "technically she said she did not think magic alone was the answer." It was not the same thing as dismissing the Mages entirely, but it unsettled him just as much.

His musings carried him nearly a mile from camp, and yet he had avoided an encounter with an Inquisition scout. Or Apostate or rogue Templar, for that matter. He was an expert tracker, and when he did not wish to be found, when he sought peace, he had only to use a portion of his true power, and no mortal eye could find him. Their discussions in her dream suggested she was open to advice. Perhaps there was hope yet. He would be sure to position himself in her easily-won graces, earn her trust, so that he could direct her with her newly acquired power. Not having it as his own did not prevent his control. He would adapt, and make use of the terrain. The fact that he would be playing on a simple, human woman should not be a difficult task. He felt confident in his machinations. He had just resolved himself to discuss the matter of the Mages with her in the waking world, when a lilting voice drifted in on the morning wind. It was soft and sweet, full of sincerity and growing in strength with each passing line.

 

 _Come to me wind, and comfort me sky,_  
_Grant me the power to rise up and fly_ ,  
_With wings I will soar, new heights I would ford,_  
_Come, come to me!_

_Come to me fire, and blaze for me flame._  
_Shifting and changing again and again._  
_Consume and entrance with your intricate dance,_  
_Come, come to me!_

_Come to me water, come to me rain,_  
_Sing of new life, repeat the refrain,_  
_Stir from your sleep, rise up from the deep,_  
_Come, come to me!_

With each verse, he felt the elements shift ever so slightly, as if being moved by a lover's touch, a friend's embrace. Combined with the raw melody, the simplistic lyrics, and the twists and undertones of magic, it was one of the most moving, genuine songs he had ever heard. It was impassioned by an intimacy only a Mage could enjoy, and it resonated deeply inside of him. He expanded his chest, drinking in the sound as if it were worship. As he followed the sound over the crest of a hill, using his staff as a walking stick, he was shocked to find Lissa, singing for the world and to no one at all.

She turned, mid-verse, and eeked out a scream at his presence, dropping a bouquet of Elfroot to the ground. "Solas!" she gasped, grasping for the dropped herbs. "I . . . didn't know you were there. You snuck up on me."

"I apologize," he said with a half bow, a gentle grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I did not intend to startle you." With an outstretched hand, he called on magic to help gather a few of the stray stalks, levitating them towards her waiting arms. "That was beautiful."

She cleared her throat in embarrassment. "Well, um, thank you." Her round cheeks blossomed a delicate pink in embarrassment. "It's been a long time since I've sung before an audience," she chuckled uncomfortably, giving him an apologetic look. She spun around in a half-circle, looking for any missed herbs and doing her best to avoid his penetrating gaze.

"You've sung for an audience?" he asked with a tilt of his head, watching her as her long fingers plucked a fresh herb from the ground.

"A long time ago. I had regular lessons as a child before I was sent to the Circle. Once there, I had little time between studies and no cause to sing in public. I mostly just sang while I was on kitchen duty, or cleaning on my own. At least, when I thought no one could hear me." She rolled her eyes, gripping her staff and started down the hill. "Apparently, I sing loudest when I think no one else can hear. An irritated Templar told me so, and I try to keep it to myself as best as I can. I . . . apologize if I disturbed your meditation."

"Not at all," he replied with a smile. "Singing is good for meditation and it is healthy energy for the spirits. In a way, singing reaches into both worlds, connecting the two together. You do a service to both when you sing." She nodded back politely, obviously not accustomed or comfortable with compliments on the matter. He tucked that bit of knowledge away for use in the future. "I am familiar with many of the folk songs of Thedas, but I have not heard that one. Is it a song of your House or region, perhaps?"

"Well, no ... I ..." she hesitated, shifting her balance between her feet, her eyes locked onto the ground, "I actually wrote it."

"You seem to be full surprises, Herald. You survive the Fade, you befriend spirits, and even make play as a Bard."

She laughed, a fruity, melodic laugh that reminded him of a friend. "Nothing quite so deadly or interesting as a real Bard, I'm afraid. But I always have been a bit unpredictable."

She had no idea how true that was. "Indeed."

As they arrived back at camp, Cassandra was sheathing her sword and checking the fit and condition of her armor. "Ah, it seems our prodigal apostates have finally returned home," she said jokingly, but with a hint of annoyance in her glance. It was all of half an hour after waking, and she was ready to make way. "Eat something if you have not. We will be moving out shortly."

"Well, let us be prodigals no longer," Lissa chuckled, pressing a friendly hand on his shoulder. Her touch was kind and almost motherly. Odd that he should appreciate it so. "Maker knows what would happen if we make her wait."

"A fair point," he added quietly as she scampered off to bundle her belongings. His eyes narrowed as he watched her back slip into the tent. "Who knows...."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to OneWingedSeraph for being my lovely beta <3
> 
> Also, if you care to hear what the song sounds like... http://yourlisten.com/artisticamber/come-to-me


	3. Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, nextcastle for this lovely image!!! <3 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> visit her on tumblr and tell her how awesome it is! http://artisticallyamber.tumblr.com/post/137187654467/artisticallyamber-nextcastle

"Watch out!" Solas cried, summoning a barrier around himself and Lissa.  

  
Eight, now nine, wolves had surrounded them, their howls calling out more fanged allies from the hills. The nearest wolf lunged, fangs barred, and she called upon the magic to aid her, but too slowly, having to resort to using her staff to shield herself instead. 

"Ah!" Her muscles burned with effort as she tried to keep the beast from coming closer _._ A wicked, dripping maw gnawed against her staff as if it would tear through the wood at any moment.  The strength of the creature pushed her backward until she was pressed against Solas' back. The two were hemmed in by wolves on all sides, and the tingling of the barrier Solas had cast was already weakening. 

"I ... can't!" she said through gritted teeth, now feeling the creature's hot breath against her cheek. It growled and snarled with unnatural drive, spraying her face. There was the quick hiss of a quarrel splitting the air and a sickening dull thud as it met its target, sinking into the wolf's head. The dead body slumped heavily in front of her, spraying her with blood and nearly tearing her staff from her death grip. But her hands were now free, as was her staff. 

"Don't kill them all!" she begged, sending a blazing trail of flame to cover Cassandra's flank. 

"We may not have a choice!" Solas interjected, twisting the Fade to aid him. 

Cassandra charged ahead into the thickest press of the fray, forcing the wolves apart as she skillfully gutted one in mid-lunge, its bowels tumbling from its split belly. "You must be mad!" she accused, not sparing Lissa a glance. 

"There is something wrong here!" the mage yelled, fending off another beast's feral lunge. She turned to her fellow mage, her eyes pleading. "Please, Solas. You must feel it, too!" 

He measured her with hisgaze for what felt an eternity before calling out a fresh barrier for the female warrior. "No natural wolf attacks like this," he finally agreed. 

"Then we have to find out!" With that, Lissa darted away, heading forthe edge of the battle. "Cover me!" 

"No! Come back!" Solas warned, but too late. 

She waved her staff, a spell prickling at the back of neck, ready to be cast. "Come here, wolfy, wolfy ... come and get me ..." she taunted. Netting one's attention, she backed away, leading it from the pack as best as she could. She waited, sweat slipping down her temple, heart pounding with exertion. Why wasn't it attacking? 

A sharp pain in her left calf made her cry out. She reacted quickly, zapping the silent stalker with a blast of electricity, sending it flying until it cracked against a boulder with a crunch. The pain in her leg flared and hot blood trickled into the sole of her boot. 

"This might not be the best plan, Lissa!" Varric cried out, cutting off another wolf's path as it threatened to press in on her position. 

"Please, trust me!" She waited, watching as the nearest wolf began its attack. With a quick command, she summoned the power of ice, covering the wolf in a cast of frigid shards. Pressing her palm on the back of its neck, she searched for any clue to its odd behavior. 

"Any time now, Herald!" Cassandra barked, coming nearer to guard her. Solas was not far behind, casting a fresh barrier over the three of them as they became pressed by the remainder of the pack.  

  
Suddenly, Lissa's eyes shot open with revelation. "They're being affected by demons!" 

"That's all the answer I need," Cassandra replied, charging back into the fray. 

"We must put them out of their misery," Solas urged. 

Lissa nodded, pressing the attack. She twisted and twirled, braiding the energies together elegantly into finely crafted spells. Solas, too, stepped in naturally, taking up the rhythm like a partner in a dance. Back to back, the two mages circled until they hadcleared the majority of the pack, Cassandra gutting any that neared too closely, and Varric taking up their cover with expert precision and a dash of luck. 

With practiced skill, the four brought the pack down, encircling them in a pile of carcasses. Cassandra sheathed her sword and wiped away blood and sweat with her forearm. "Is everyone alright?"  

"Nothing that won't heal," Lissa spoke up, hiding her injury beneath her robes. 

"What were you thinking?" Varric spoke up, holstering Bianca on his back. "You nearly got yourself killed!" 

"I was in no more danger than I have been before." 

"For once, I agree with the dwarf," Cassandra managed through clenched teeth. "You could have been killed." 

Varric shrugged. "Ah, so when she's agrees with me, I'm 'the dwarf.' But when I'm being accused, I'm 'Varric.' Is it so hard to say, 'I agree with Varric?'"

Cassandra scowled. "Yes." 

"The wolves were behaving unnaturally, extremely so," Lissa said with a calm she did not feel. "If we were to kill them off without considering the source, what then? We would take down the entire pack and disrupt the balance of this entire area." 

"Or they could just be crazy wolves," Varric suggested. 

"No normal wolf would attack like that," Cassandra conceded. "But that does not mean you endanger yourself! You are too valuable!" 

"More valuable than what?" She gestured to the nearby farmland. "Master Dennet? His wife? Son? Daughter? These may be just animals, but their existence directly affects every living person in this area. Without them prowling their territories, more bandits could roam freely at night, and more vicious predators would take their place!" Her eyes flashed with determination, even through the grit and grime splashing her face. 

Cassandra grunted, knowing that the Herald would not back down. "At least give us more warning so that we can protect you." 

"Head to camp and clean up. I'm going to look for clues a bit longer. I'll be over in a moment," Lissa urged, fighting to ignore the pain in her leg. 

With a huff, Cassandra lead the three back towards the nearby camp. The water gurgled softly, trickling over small rocks and crannies as it cut its course through the Dennet estate. Cassandra knelt down, cupping her hands to fill them with the clean, cool water. Varric, too, began washing his gear and tending to his injuries. Solas' eyes narrowed on Lissa as she lingered near the scene, searching the carcasses. 

"You have remained quiet, Solas," Cassandra stated. "Do you suspect the influence of demons?" 

"I do," he replied simply, his gaze still fixed on the human mage. "And I agree that we should find the cause." 

"Of course you would," she said quietly, filling up a canteen with fresh water. "At least tell me you agree she should be more careful." He nodded slowly, and that satisfied her. "Good. Maybe you should talk some sense into her, before she is caught by a stray wolf." 

He did not miss the irony. "I will talk to her," he agreed, and made his way toward the scene. 

Cassandra sighed, standing slowly and stretching her back. 

Varric spoke. "Is it just me, or all mages a little..."

"Ridiculous?" 

"Well, I was going to say 'preoccupied,' but I can see the application," he smirked.  
  
  


* * * 

 

With careful steps, Solas approached the scene. The scent of blood and sweat filled his nostrils, and the dirt was damp with blood beneath his feet. On the wind floated the scent of her, of that human. It lacked the subtleties of elfin sweat, sweet and light like a spring rain. It was earthy and possessed a tang, tinted with the faint hint of spices, like clove or cinnamon. For a moment, a brief flicker of a thought crossed his mind. 

  
_Would she taste the same as well?_  

  
Mentally, he recoiled, irritated at how his thoughts strayed from sanity. He had no time for senseless wanderings. 

Delicately navigating the fallen wolves, he slipped behind her crouched form silently. "Have you found what you were looking for?" 

She sighed, shaking her head. "I am no tracker, unfortunately. I was hoping to find some hint of where their lair was, but I'm at a loss." 

Solas scanned the carnage, checking the paws, the snouts, and the eyes. "I cannot say I am an expert," he started slowly, making note of what he found. "But I may have an idea." Burrs from local foliage clung to the fur around their paws, and pollen of Crystal Grace, a rare flower, dusted a few of their nostrils. Discreetly, he picked up their scent. Damp soil, old earth, the scent of age... "Wolves typically don't travel in numbers this far from their den. I think we can assume that their cave is nearby." He stretched out a hand to help her up. 

When she reached for him, her hand met his, soft and yet with callused tips from holding her staff. As she rose, she stumbled, hissing through her teeth in pain. His thin features scowled. "You're hurt." He realized all at once that the strong stench of blood was not just from the nearby carnage; the tangy scent of human blood assaulted him pungently. 

Her lips pulled back from her teeth as she winced in pain. "Just a little," she managed as he aided her gently to the grass.

With slender fingers, he untied the laces to her boots. Gingerly, he tugged on the sole of the boot, pulling it from her foot with a sickening sound of suction as it released from the thick liquid pooled inside. Tacky blood gummed up around the jagged edges of the bite wound, while fresh blood continued to weep from the center, trickling down her leg. "Cassandra is right," he said more sternly than he intended. "You can be a danger to yourself." 

She chuckled darkly, gritting her teeth against the pain. "Yeah, well, life is dangerous." 

He scowled. "You know what I mean." He reached for a canteen in his pack, but paused, plucking a nearby fresh branch and offering it to her. "Bite," he commanded. 

She opened her mouth, and he placed the green branch on her teeth. She bit down as commanded. 

"I will not lie to you; this will hurt." He poured the water from his canteen over the wound, heating it with magic as it washed away the saliva and dirt and grime. She complained, groaning from her gut, but she did not move or flinch.  _Strong, for a mortal_. But then, she had to be. Had she not come through the Fade? Had she not risen to the task placed upon her? His work complete, he soothed the wound with healing magic, hovering his hand above the injury. 

She reached up, taking the branch from between her lips. "Thank you." 

"For causing you pain?" 

"For helping," she insisted. "I know I was a little brash ..." 

One of his thin eyebrows arched. 

"Okay, more than a little. But I trust you all to help me. I know you have my back. Especially you, Solas." 

This was a true surprise. "Me? An Elven Apostate?"  

"Yes. You understand magic intimately, and I think your journeys in the Fade have given you a different perspective, one which I value. I know that if I say silly things like, 'we need to save the wolves,' and 'preserve balance,' that you'll understand me." She tucked a stray scarlett strand of hair behind her blunt ear. "It means a lot." 

"You do not say silly things. You speak with truth and with wisdom. However," his voice adopted a cautionary tone, "you should also trust the voices of our other comrades." 

She avoided his eyes, looked down and sighed. "Yes, I know. She's right. It was careless not to tell you what I was thinking." 

"And it injured you in the process." 

"I know. I would never have been so spontaneous had we not been so close to camp, or if I didn't trust in you all so much." 

The way she looked at him, her amber eyes so trusting, void of dishonesty, stirred in him a feeling he had not known for an age. It stroked a desire to be called upon, to hear his name invoked, as it had been once in age before humans. He desired to be worshiped. 

She could not know how dangerous a thing that was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you OWS for being my beta!


	4. Trust

Following Solas' directions, Lissa led the group within the narrow ravine, hunting for the wolves' den. Tall rock formations rose up on either side and the wind whistled a path between them. As she crossed the babbling waters, she misjudged a step, slipping and falling to her knees, soaking herself in the process. She waved off any of their spoken concern; it was just a small trip, a moment of distraction, nothing at all unusual. Her argument and unfortunate, clumsy history made sense, and they readily accepted it.

 

She felt guilty for lying to them.

 

Truthfully, the morning had been difficult. She slept poorly, her mind wracked with nightmares of the worst kind. It had been an entire night of prolonged, tortuous visions spurred by demons in the Fade, and she feared discussing the dream with them. It would only cause them unnecessary worry, or worse: they might think her a victim to demonic influence, a dangerous path for any, but especially a mage. She had not forgotten Cassandra's fierce gaze or her tight grip cutting into her wrist, grinding her bones as the Seeker dragged her behind bars after the Conclave disaster. Just because the mark held the ability to close the rifts did not mean it could be trusted. Lissa would not give them reason to doubt her.

 

The mark often irritated her, some days more than others. But today it grated against her skin like a dull, serrated blade scratching beneath the surface, stinging and biting. A dull ache throbbed in her veins, pulsing like clockwork with each beat of her heart. It set her fingers to twitching. She switched her staff to her left hand, hoping to give it something to cling to, something on which to anchor, to hide her pained reactions.

 

The chill of her wet clothes and the way her boots squished with each step were both welcome distractions from the pain. Even though her skin broke out in pebbled gooseflesh, shivers crawling up her spine, down her arms, it helped to have something—anything—else to hold on to.  


 

"We should be nearby," Solas remarked, his eyes narrowing down the ravine.

 

"Good," Cassandra barked, taking a moment to roll her shoulders. "The sooner we get this done, the better." Cassandra had made her feeling clear on the matter. Master Dennet's wife had asked them to solve the wolf problems, and the fastest solution would be to rid the valley of them. Quick, clean, duty-like. This studying and investigating was grating against her thin patience.

 

"I can actually agree with Cassandra," Varric added dryly, peeling off his wet gloves. "A campfire tonight will be especially comforting." The rogue's chest hair flattened and spidery with water. He shot a look of sass to Cassandra. "See? It's not so hard to say. If I can do it, _you_ can do it." Cassandra simply grunted in disgust.

 

"Rest here a bit, and give Varric a chance to dry off," Lissa added, looking at him with a pang of guilt. She had been so consumed with her own struggles that she had not noticed the dwarf's own discomfort. Where the water along the ravine had been just above her knees, it had soaked him above the waist. "I'll scout ahead. There's a lot of spindleweed around here and our supply is running low. I'll be back when Varric's dry." 

Varric cocked one eyebrow. "Oh? And how will you know that?"  


 

She grinned mischievously. "Easy. I'll be downwind. I won't notice the smell of wet dwarf."

 

Varric's jaw dropped in shock, until he smiled with a nod. "Good one, Sparkles!" He tossed a soggy boot onto the dry bank and shooed her away with a flick of his wrist. "You're learning!"

  
With an elaborate bow for his sake, she turned with a grin, following the winding path further down stream, bending to gather spindleweed along the way. Once the noise of their small group had disappeared, she peered over one shoulder and narrowed her eyes in a squint, searching for their forms. Everything blurred together at any decent distance, but she assumed she had travelled enough paces to be out of their immediate sight. After gathering one last bundle of the slippery herb, she shook off the water, gently placed it in her pack, and slipped away from the riverbank, ducking into the shade of the nearby rock face.

 

In the darkness, the mark pulsed, and her veins were bolts of sickly green light shooting out wit every beat of her heart. It burned and seared under her skin, and the intensity of the pain increased the further she moved downstream.

 

_What is going on here?_

_  
_

A tightness behind her navel told her she close to...something. Perhaps it was what was affecting the wolves.

 

As she looked toward the source, she felt the corner of her vision blur and shift, and a tug in her stomach brought a sudden surge of nausea. She wanted to close her eyes, to stop the pain, to cull the sickening lurch of her gut...but something held her fast. Eerie whispers murmured unintelligibly in her mind, urging her forward. For a moment, she wanted to follow, to head toward the source of the dark demands.

 

Awareness snapped her from her reverie like a sudden bite of winter wind. She had only wanted to discern the cause of her pain, and perhaps the wolves, _(as well as )_  save her friends from worrying needlessly. But what was this she had disturbed? Her mark pulsed with pain, nearly taking her legs out from under her. She reached out with a clammy hand and pressed it against the cool rock to steady herself as she caught her breath. Whatever it was, it was dangerous.

 

"Herald?" a familiar voice asked.

 

Were she not so focused on the pain, his silent arrival would have set her heart to pounding. "Solas," she replied, more weakly than she intended. She swallowed hard, trying to compose herself, to gather the shattered bits of pain into a tangible, tangled ball she could control. "Did you come to help me gather some herbs, or just to make me jump out of my skin?" She turned, forcing a grin.

 

His brows narrowed as he watched her carefully. Despite her efforts, she could not hide the glistening beads of sweat on her brow, nor how ashen her pale skin had turned. "Perhaps both," he replied coolly, a hint of a smirk coiling at the corner of his lips. With smooth steps, he circled her, standing at her face to face. "Or perhaps I came to divine your real purpose?"

 

She chuckled tiredly and used her staff as a crutch as she slowly stood, using every ounce of strength to seem poised, collected. "And what you suppose that is?"

 

"I do not think it to be gathering spindleweed, despite your obvious efforts to make it seem like it is." His reply was pointed, but said gently. He did not miss the whitening of her knuckles, the slight trembling of her knees beneath her robes, how she shifted her weight to be supported by her staff. And he did not miss the look of determined effort sparkling in her eyes.

 

Too tired to bounce words back and forth with him, and knowing she would not win anyway, Lissa shook her head and grinned weakly as she let herself down to the ground with a grunt of effort. "Oh, Solas, you're always working so hard to cover up your intentions with words." She sighed, gritting her teeth as she adjusted her position to be more bearable. "If you would say something, just say it plainly."

 

Silence hung heavy for a moment as he considered her. "I think you wished to discover the source of the disturbance yourself, perhaps in some justified sense of protecting the rest of us, or in some short-sighted desire for knowledge."

 

"Huh," she said with a tired, crooked grin. "Well done. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

 

Solas stiffened and his gaze cooled. "This is not a situation you should mock, Herald." He said her title more sharply than he intended. How could she not see the fault in her logic? Mentally, he sighed. But then perhaps he was expecting too much of her. "Can you not see the danger in going alone?"

 

She shook her head, wrinkling her nose. "I wasn't mocking you, Solas," she said genuinely. He took note of how she used his name. Was it weariness, pain that made her speak his name so softly? Or was it pure sincerity that she spoke it so tenderly? He cast the thought aside; it bothered him he should care to notice, or that it made the skin on the back of his neck prickle.

 

She continued in the same soft, measured tone. "I'm actually pleased you trust me enough to be direct for a change. I wouldn't mock that." She paused in thought, her eyes seeming to look through the stone walls beyond them. Screwing up her nerve with a deep breath, she dragged her eyes back to his disapproving stare. She sighed. "You're right. Coming to get spindleweed wasn't my true purpose." Her eyes left his again, falling to ground. Her left hand clenched her staff tightly enough to cause it to shake. "The truth is...something has been bothering me at night. I-I was afraid to mention it because..." She tried to force down the pain in her hand, but the mark seemed to flare at the mere thought of the cause. "...because I think it might be demons."

 

"And you were going to face them on your own?" he asked incredulously. "How is that better than the alternative?"

 

"No, I wasn't! I just wanted to know if it really  _was_  demons. Or maybe it is just side effect of the mark. Throwing out the possibility of being plagued by demons isn't exactly a habit of any mage..."

 

"The mark...how has it been affecting you?" Kneeling before her, he set down his staff and reached out to take her hand. She pulled back, hesitant to present her palm. His eyes, clear and intently focused on her face, pierced her. How could she expect him to trust her if she would not trust him? If anyone were to understand anything this mark might do, it would be him.

 

Slowly, she lent him her shaking fist, clenched in an effort to force down the pain. He took it carefully between his two slender hands, stroked her whitened knuckles, and gently coaxed her fist to open. As her fingers released, the mark bloomed, green light pulsing _(again)_ through her veins. He watched as it snaked its way under her skin, glowing eerily just below the surface. "When did this start?"

 

She managed to answerthrough clenched teeth, "A few days ago."

 

He could sense something nearby shifting the balance of energy. Suddenly, her hand began to quiver, slowly quickening to a violent tremble. "Ahh!" she cried out in pain as her entire forearm began to convulse. He pressed his hands over hers, clasping her hand tightly. With her eyes clenched shut, she did not see his lips moving silently as he whispered a spell to sooth the terrible agony. She dropped her head, chin falling to her collarbone. Disheveled, crimson strands fell in her face, and her shoulders heaved heavily up and down with each labored breath. He watched and shook his head, his brows furrowing together. Why would she hide her struggle? How could she have kept it hidden for several days? He was unsure if he was more struck by her lack of trust in his abilities or by her ability to hide it from him for so long.

 

"Why did you say nothing before?" he scolded. 

 

Her tired eyes lifted, sweaty strands of hair sticking to her forehead. "You know why."

 

Yes, he did know why she kept her peace, despite debilitating pain, despite her secret burden. He had seen this shadow in her dreams, following her like a ghost. Keeping his hands cupped around hers, so small and smooth—he squeezed it tightly in reassurance. "You told me once, when I described hesitations about being an Elven apostate among a camp of Templars, that you wouldn't let anything happen to me. Did you mean that?"  


 

Tired eyes scrunched in confusion. "Yes, of course I meant it." He smiled gently, and a knot coiled in her gut.   


"I won't let anything happen to you."

 

Her face tingled and it felt like something blossomed in her chest. She was certain if she were not so ashen, she would be flushed with embarrassment.

 

He stood, extending a hand to aid her. "Come. I will tell the others what you have been experiencing. This way, we can better prepare ourselves for what lies ahead. And in turn, we can better protect you."

 

She accepted his help, using his hand and her staff to help her from the ground. "Thank you, Solas. I am sorry, for not being honest with you." She pushed the hair off her forehead with the back of her palm. "I really am fortunate to have a friend like you."

 

There it was, the way her eyes looked up at him, sparkling with admiration and trust. He had wanted to draw that out of her, to satiate his need for worship—and yet, now that he had it, it felt...different. The lofty distance of worship was nothing like this. This was warm and open, kind and inviting. It was a little amusing, he admitted, but perhaps he would indulge in this for now. After all, worship was so easily gotten with power. But in this form, in this shape, with his power dampened, he would need to bide his time.  


 

While he waited, there was no reason to bored. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments and patience! Just recovering from cleaning up a house flood and working many much hours on illustrating a children's book. I will keep posting more for you all as quickly as I can!


	5. Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments! It really encourages me to keep writing amidst a 60+ hour a week work schedule. <3 
> 
> Comment with what you'd like to see, i.e. what situations you would find interesting!

Lissa, watched her comrades from a distance, perched on a warm rock. She could barely make out their forms as her weak eyes strained for the details. But even without perfect vision, it was obvious the discussion was getting heated. Solas stood before Cassandra, conversing about her mark no doubt. The warrior was gesturing wildly, and Solas stood even stoic, straight and unflappable. Varric's reaction was hard to make out, but that he was so quiet and still was unnerving. 

She sighed, pulling her knees close to her chest. Lissa had tried to tell Solas. Why couldn't he have understood? Squinting, she studied them, and a knot twisted in her gut. They must be so angry at her. All the trust she had tried to build, the friendship she extended, all of it was in jeopardy. And if the look on Varric's face was any indication, it might be lost forever. 

As she imagined the rest of her forced career closing rifts bound in chains, she rolled her shoulders and neck, anxiously awaiting their sentence. Why would they not just yell at her, push her away? It would be so much easier it she could start to accept her punishment, instead of waiting for it to come. Her stomach clenched, and her headache returned. Pressing her eyes shut, she focused only on the heat of the sun soaking through her robes to her back, the sound of the nearby river gurgling, and the gentle brush of wind against the grasses - anything to shut out the disappointment, distrust, she had earned. 

"Is this true?" Cassandra asked aghast, pacing little circles into the grass with heavy steps. 

"Indeed it is," Solas replied coolly as he folded his arms behind his back. 

"To keep this secret ... does she not trust us? Why would she hide it?" Cassandra raked her calloused fingers through her short locks, mussing it up without a care. 

"You do have a tendency to intimidate," Solas offered with a hint of sarcasm coated in the tone of a scholar. The Seeker simply paused to glare at him and a small snarl gurgled in her throat, and she continued in her frustrated circles. 

With careful speculation, Solas measured each of their reactions. Cassandra had reacted much as expected: frustrated and flustered tinged with disappointment. The woman's feelings were generally easy to predict and easier to confirm as she stalked around in a huff. The dwarf's reactions were unexpected, though not surprising. Varric stood quietly stiff, thick arms crossed over his chest. The muscles in his jaw tensed behind his thin lips, and his eyes narrowed in deep thought. 

"It is my fault," Cassandra admitted heavily, shrugging her shoulders. "I should have been more observant. I should have expected this." Her head shook, and her voice seemed heavy with burden. 

"We all should have noticed," Varric finally spoke, his voice rough and solemn. Before either of them could reply, he turned on a wide heel and stalked back towards the human mage. 

 

Lissa lifted her head at the sound of a body falling heavily in the grass next to her. As she looked up, she caught sight of the top of Varric's auburn ponytail next to her. He was stiff and silent, and she swallowed heavily. The silence was painful to her, pressing like a weight on her chest. He was normally so jovial and at the least, ready with a cutting remark. But with a plethora of material for a comic comeback, he sat stone silent. [i]He must be so, so angry.[/I] At least he was here. She shifted uncomfortably on the smooth rock, waffling between speaking up or remaining silent. What would she say to him? Her defense was well-planned and logical, but though it might make her case, it wouldn't heal his wounds. Thankfully, he decided to speak first. 

"You should have told us." 

Guilt. It panged, a shot in the dark, straight through her chest. Letting down a friend was hard, but the disappointment in his voice was so obvious ... Maker, she had been so stupid. Why did she even say anything at all? It would have been better for her arm to have been ripped off from the pain than have to deal with these, her only friends now, despising her. 

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. I can get through it. It-it's not demons," she stammered quickly, then found herself backpedalling. "Well, it is, but not that way. I'm not being possessed." [I] I don't need to be locked up. I don't need to Tranquil.[/I] Inhaling deeply, stretching the tightness in her chest, she cleared her harried thoughts. Steeling her resolve, she continued. "Until it was obvious what the problem was, there was no point in bringing it up. Without a solution, my discomfort would only get in the way. It holds no weight on overall success, which is why I kept it hidden." She gained confidence with each sentence, her back straightening and voice strengthening. The pressure in her chest made way for a slow burn that quickly stirred itself up into a roaring fire. "What matters here is that I can close the rifts, and seal the breach. That is our ultimate goal, and I will not allow anything to get in the way of that. Telling you would only slow us all down. For now, you'll just have to trust that I know what I am doing, and that I am not being possessed." 

Varric's face twisted. "Possessed? Andraste, I'm glad we're not dealing with [i]that[/I]," he sighed, resting the back of his head against the rock. "Maker, it would be too much to be believable." He shook his head and his jaw tensed. "But you, being in excruciating pain caused by the [i]one[/I] thing that might be able to save us all?" he asked sarcastically, more to himself than to her. "It would be too ironic not to believe..." He turned, shifting one leg under him as he faced her. "Listen, Lissa..." He so rarely used her actual name it paused her frenzied thoughts for a moment. "I'm sorry." He swallowed, his jaw clenching briefly before continuing. "I'm sorry that you didn't think you could tell us you were hurt, that we ... that I couldn't trust you. I've seen too much willpower in you to think you'd ever be possessed, but I'll be damned if it wouldn't scare the hell out of me. So, to make sure that doesn't happen, you have to tell us what's going with that crazy ... thing of yours." 

The knot in her gut slowly began to unravel the longer his droopy eyes pleaded with her. He had not been disappointed with [i]her[/I]. He was disappointed with [i]himself[/I]. Her shoulders felt lighter and she reached out with a hand to the dwarf's shoulder. "Varric..." What words could she speak to describe the gratitude she now felt? How could she tell him what his friendship meant to her? Without the nerves twisting her gut, a sudden twinge of hunger gnawed at her sides accompanied by a comical gurgle. 

She paused at a loss for words, trying to force down the heat rising to her face. 

Varric's brows rose and he bit back a grin. 

Lissa was spared a response with the arrival of Cassandra and Solas. 

She knew now how Varric and Solas felt about this revelation, but it was truly Cassandra's opinion that made her nervous. Lissa knew firsthand the blind fervor that could burn in the eyes of a Templar. But a Seeker, the not-so-secret police of the Templars, were notoriously more zealous, and Cassandra was nothing if not passionate. 

The uncomfortable knot settled in her stomach, and she sat up straighter, preparing to present a defense for herself. 

"Herald," Cassandra began, but then shook her head and adopting a rare, soft tone. "Lissa ... I am sorry you did not feel you could tell me about this ... trial of yours." Realizing that Solas and Varric stood near, Cassandra straightened herself and resumed with her stern professionalism. "It is my duty to protect you, even from things you cannot understand. I will work harder to be worthy of that position," she admitted, turning to walk away.

Lissa stood, reaching out for her wrist. "Cassandra..." The warrior paused, looking at first at her hand encircled around her wrist, and then to the mage's eyes. "Thank you. And ... I'm sorry, too." Lissa had allowed her poor vision to misinterpret their reactions. What she thought she had seen had not actually been there. No, it wasn't just her poor sight, she admitted. It was her point of view. Blinded by predisposition, she failed to see what they were really feeling, how her actions had in turn hurt them. She assumed Cassandra's passion would make her misguided. She had assumed Varric's friendship was based on her actions and not his character. And she had assumed Solas would scold her for being so naïve and ignorant. How wrong she had been.

Cassandra's lips thinned in a grin. "There is nothing to apologize for. For now, we must exercise caution. Solas fears that rift may be harboring more power than we have yet faced." She turned then to Solas, raising her brows as if she expected him to continue. 

He obliged. "That is my theory, yes. But it is only a theory. We cannot be sure of it until we are there. We should be ready for anything." 

Solas watched as Lissa explained her nightmares to their companions in person, showing them the new strength which had overtaken the mark, how it twisted her arm in pain. Varric rose and prepared her a small meal of dried meats and herbs while Cassandra stood to brood and plan. The Seeker paced around the outskirt of camp, thinking of their situation darkly. Solas exhaled slowly, feeling a hint of compassion for the mortal warrior. He too felt guilty for this passing by without his knowledge, for allowing the obvious to go unnoticed. It rankled his pride. This mortal, carrying a portion of his own magic, would hide it from him? He bristled at the thought. He would not be so easily deceived, and he could not let it happen again. 

He would not let her out of his sight.


	6. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Possible Trigger Warning**
> 
> Rape/Non-Con insinuated, not described.

Lissa's knuckles peaked white with effort as she gripped tightly to her staff with her left hand as she endured the pain of the mark. It was hard enough to withstand the pain as it increased with every step closer to the den, but with the gaze of her comrades boring into her back, every action was questioned, each misstep a concern. She should have been thankful for their worry, but the attention was wearying. "We are here," Solas commented dryly, though his eyes never left Lissa's form. Unknown to the dwarf or Seeker, Lissa had been discreetly using mana to aid her stamina. The energies surrounding her were in continual flux and slowly depleting. He knew the demons here would be stronger than most, and she would need her strength. "Perhaps you can take vanguard, Seeker?" Solas suggested with a look of intent. Cassandra nodded, overtaking Lissa with purposeful steps. Varric came up alongside her, giving her an encouraging grin. Lissa nodded, gratefully falling to the rear. Solas slipped next to her side, watching her as she gently flexed her marked hand.

"You are exerting much, and have yet more to spend," he said in his smooth tone. "You should use care."

"I'll be fine," she insisted, gathering her strength. "And this time I'm not alone." She grinned forcibly.

Her determination was admirable, but he could feel her weakness. "Allow me to help, if I may." She nodded, knowing any protest would be quickly silenced. He outstretched his hand, and slipped under the strands of her garnet strands to press his fingertips against her smooth temple. "Close your eyes-"

Her upturned nose scrunched. "Why?"

He held back a sigh. "Close your eyes, and focus on my energy."

She did as instructed, but her furrowed brows revealed her discomfort. He stole a moment to take in this mortal who could carry so great a burden, step into the Fade, and willingly go after each tear to sew it shut again. What was it about this quickling that enabled her? She seemed so normal, so human.

_So mortal._

He too closed his eyes, and whispered a spell in tumbling Elvish, spilling out magic to envelop and support her. He could feel her energy at the end of his, but instead of being carefully drawn in, absorbed into hers, it quietly rolled back to him like oil trying to mix with water. He opened his eyes in his confusion, dropping his hand to his side. "You need to focus."

Lissa sighed. "Sorry, I just ... it's hard to focus. I ... I'm always uncomfortable with my eyes closed. Could you try again, but I keep my eyes open?"

He did not understand, but the ripples of distress were keenly felt. "If that would ease your mind, yes."

She swallowed and nodded in thanks. Gently he reached out to her again, resting his hand softly at the side of her face.

Lissa watch his hand, blinking uncomfortably as she searched for a place to rest her eyes. She met his, but using his gaze as a focal point was far too uncomfortable. Looking through him would be rude, she knew, but she needed to think of something quickly, else she look like a novice mage and disappoint him again. Finally, her eyes rested on the necklace draped on his chest. Yes, fixating on that piece of bone would be much easier, she decided.

_And I wouldn't have to be blind._

Solas began the spell again, revisiting the Elvhen words with precision and intent. As the magic bloomed, enveloping them, he could feel her aura and the gaps in her energies. Again, he concentrated on bolstering the weaknesses, urging the mana to transmit.

Lissa could feel the magic supporting her, like she was floating in water, suspended weightlessly. The skin on the back of her neck prickled, and she inhaled deeply, her chest gently rising and neck arching as she drank it in. With a great sigh, she exhaled heavily, feeling as if all the used, exhausted energy was dispelled in that single breath. The next intake of air was fresh and clean, and seemed to bring with it thoughts of spring and rain, like the clear, electrified air before a thunderstorm.

"How do you feel?" he questioned quietly.

His stormy gaze locked onto hers, his brows furrowed in deep thought, and for a moment, she imagined she saw actual storm clouds in his eyes, billowing and swirling with the pressure of a coming storm.

"I feel ... lighter, actually," she chuckled nervously as she looked down to the mark in her palm. The pressure she felt was still there, pulling against her skin, but the pain was all but gone.

He nodded. "Good. We should hurry. I cannot say how long it will last." He stood still, watching her as she took up her staff and followed behind the rest of their company. He had more than a vague clue of what was waiting for them. The press of power behind the veil was all too easily felt, and its violent tug on the anchor as well. The pain she had been feeling was sadly to be expected as the anchor sought the rift like a magnet, pulling her body between two planes.

_And yet she still lives._

 

 

Wolves and demons filled the small cave, pressing the party to their limits. Varric was constantly scrambling for a vantage point of any height to offer what cover he could. Cassandra waded into the thickest part of it, often surrounded by three or four wolves on her own. Lissa hemmed around the edges of the fights, getting in closer than Solas preferred, but her ability to work in close quarters was impressive. Her staff dipped and twirled as she cast each spell, layering one over the other. It was constantly shifting, and her feet kept up the rhythm. The way the magic entwined and pulsed, how she used the energies around her was as natural as breathing. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed magic so thoroughly. It was shame it was always on the battlefield.

Suddenly, the entire cave filled with green light and the ground trembled in violent throws, knocking them all off balance. Solas felt the break in her magic before he heard the scream. Lissa faltered, crying out in pain as she dropped to her knees, her staff abandoned as she clutched the mark to her chest with both hands. "Watch out!" Cassandra yelled, but too late. Distracted by the pain tearing at her hand, she was not ready for the slash of deep claws of the demon that had appeared behind her. Blinding pain raked down her back, and her entire body arched with agony. Heat spilled down her back, and each stripe burned like fire. With a quick wave of his hand, Solas cast a barrier, coating her in a film of blue just before she was flung against the hard rocks. She slumped down, limp like a rag doll, and what vision she had left was beginning to spin. Shrill ringing drowned out all other sounds except for the deafening roar of her pulse. Her head, suddenly too heavy for her neck, dropped to the ground. She could feel the rumble of the earth beneath her, feel the spray of dirt as it was kicked in her face. She was vaguely aware of the hot breath of a wolf puffing on her face before the beast suddenly shattered into frozen shards. The cool blast of air refreshed her senses enough to open her eyes again.

In the swimming vision she had left, she could make out Solas' face as he crouched above her. One hand shook her shoulder, trying to rouse to consciousness. Though his lips moved, the ringing continued to drown out what words he had. The ground shook again, but then the air above them changed. She could not see it clearly, but she could feel it. The rift was growing.

Her sluggish mind finally settled on action. With what strength remained, she raised her left arm above her. Solas shook his head, his brows furrowing, but she had not the awareness to recognize the warning. A sickening pull in her stomach lurched, and the sky seemed to switch places the ground. He reached out, gripping her wrist, and everything went black.

 

 

__________________

 

Sitting up was trial of its own. Gravity seemed all distorted as she tried to right herself. Which way was up? In the dark, she felt pressed and pulled on all sides. Grasping blindly, she found the ground - or maybe it was the wall - and pushed off. The weight of her head settled on her shoulders heavily. Yes, this was up. The dark was too much. Not even the mark was glowing.

_What is going on here?_

_"Is this what you fear most?"_ a rasping voice asked. She turned, looking for the source, but it came from everything and nowhere, as if it were in her own mind. _"A life with blindness?"_

Her heart raced as she scrambled to stand. The pain in her back flared, and she tumbled to the ground, her head bouncing off the hard packed earth. She groped the earth, clutching dirt, leaves and twigs frantically as she searched for her staff.

 _"What is the matter? Can you not see it?"_ The voice chuckled darkly.

"Who are you?" she asked, spitting dirt and blood from her mouth. "Where are you?"

Suddenly her sight returned, and what she saw turned her stomach.

 _"Perhaps the better question is, 'where are you?'"_ The twisted landscape and dark horizon, the splitting veins of lyrium were too familiar. Lissa was in the Fade.

But it was not the Fade, not entirely. Everything was the same size and scope of the cave. It was as if the den had been overlaid with the ghostly imagery of the Fade, as if she were somehow in both places at once.

It was a fair question. Where was she?

"Alright then," she responded, sitting up slowly. With little options, she decided to play along. "Where am I?"

What little light there was dimmed, and she was left with only the green glare from her palm.

_"You are exactly where you need to be."_

 

\-----------------------------

 

Solas bent over her form, concern etching his face. Behind him, he heard Cassandra grunt with effort as she sliced through the last possessed wolf. He heard the carcass land with a thud, and heard the sound of her heavy boots making their way towards him. But he never removed his gaze from her pained expression. Cassandra eased up beside him slowly, fearing the worst.

"Is she...?"

"She is alive," he replied quickly. "But in great danger." With his hand placed gently on her feverish forehead, he could see into her nightmare, and what he saw turned his stomach.

The mark had turned inky black, and the tendrils squirmed beneath her skin. "What has happened to the mark?" Cassandra questioned.

"Right now, her being is split between two planes, here and the Fade. Her physical body is here, but her spirit and the power of the mark-"

"Are in the Fade?" Varric interrupted, holstering the clunky Bianca on his back. "H-how do we get her back?"

Solas knitted his brows. "It is not something _we_ can do. But ... _I_ may be able to help guide her back."

 

\---------------

 

"Who are you?" She raised her palm, trying to shine light on the seemingly endless nothingness.

Suddenly, a dark figure began making its way towards her with slow, determined steps. She angled her palm to illuminate the figure and gasped. Before her stood a young Templar, covered head to toe in the daunting armor. His face was covered with a closed helm, but she knew who he was. The predatory swagger, the way he dragged his sword behind him, tearing up the earth, the width of his shoulders and the familiar dings in his armor. Weston Rothert, a Templar knight that had been dismissed from her Tower, from the Order, on account of bad behavior. Behavior Lissa knew all too well.

_No, it can't be._

_"Ah, so this is something you fear?"_ the voice rasped wickedly.

"You are not real," she said quietly, forcing down the feeling of pain and worthlessness that accompanied his visage. "You are not real!"

 _"I can feel your terror rolling off you like smoke from a fire_ ," the image of Weston spoke, his voice distorted and multiplied. Her heart beat faster with each step her made towards her. He leaned in closely, gripping her wrist and pulling her towards him with force. _"It tastes so good,"_ it said with lust. She bit back a whimper, but focused on his words, mentally building up her defenses brick by brick. Another voice spoke up quietly in her mind.

_"You do not have to succumb to this."_

"Solas?" she asked frantically, struggling against the specter's grip.

The apparition paused, looking around frantically. _"You are not wanted here!"_ it hissed.

 _"Lissa, do you really fear this man?"_ Solas asked.

"I..." Tears welled up in her eyes. This was not in fact Weston. He was most likely dead, and she had not even seen him in nearly ten years. But just having this demon here dredged up her own skeletons.

Solas could feel the hurt she felt, the fear, the shame. It twisted his gut into a nauseating knot. His jaw clenched in anger, and he swore death on anything that would try to harm her.  
  
_“Lissa, I need you to think. When you see him, what do you really fear?”_  
  
She pulled against his grip, desperately clinging to each word Solas spoke _. What do I really fear?_ _I fear_ … Images of the past, painful memories flooded her mind, flashing in vivid detail. She had stood up for a friend, and was punished for her interruption. _I fear … letting people hurt others_. Solas’ voice broke through her thoughts.  
  
“ _Say it aloud!”_ he urged.  
  
“I fear letting others be hurt! I fear becoming selfish like _you!”_ she spat the words from her mouth, ignoring the trail of hot tears that trickled down her lips. She pounded her fist against the things chest angrily. “I fear … letting things I am afraid of stop me from doing what is right!” Finally, though hurt by memories of her past, perhaps even spurred by them, she had gathered enough strength to pull free, looking up at him with hate in her eyes.

"You are a demon, and have no power over me!"

The Templar's image disintegrated into black smoke, coiling away into nothingness. The eerie light of night of the Fade returned, revealing the hunched form a Fear demon towards the back of the cave. She reached down for her staff, and gasped as another hand enclosed around hers. “Solas!” she gasped, never more relieved to see his face. He did not look at her, but was focused on the demon with a vengeful ferocity.  
  
“I am here to help,” he said simply, his eyes never leaving his prey. With a fury, Solas unleashed magic she not seen before. She took up her staff, calling upon the powers of the storm. The two rained spells on the creature until it shrieked in pain, breaking apart in destruction. Completely spent, the human mage fell on her staff, sliding down to her knees. Solas was at her side in a moment, reaching around to cradle her head as she sank backward. “Rest now, Herald. The nightmare is over.”  
  
She closed her eyes, the curve of his gentle smile and kindly gaze the last image she clung to.  
  
The light of day warmed her eyelids, and she fluttered her eyes opening gingerly. Solas was there again, smiling down knowingly at her while still cradling her head in one hand. “Welcome back, Herald,” he greeted warmly. She started to sit up, but he prevented her, carefully pressing down with one hand against her shoulder. “You’re still too weak to walk. But you managed a victory over a fear demon. The rift is sealed.”  
  
“What Chuckles is trying to say is, ‘We’re glad to see you’re still here.’” Varric peered over her with a wide, goofy grin. Beyond them, the darkness of the cave had been replaced with glittering beams of sunlight streaming down, dusting the petals of crystal grace with speckles of light. The cold rock, bluish and grim before, was a warm russet and glittered with gold where the light bounced off the smooth ridges. The once oppressive cave seemed like a welcoming shelter without the demonic influence of the rift.  
  
“What of the wolves?” she asked.  
  
Solas shook his head in amazement. Cassandra grunted. “You are a thoughtful being, Herald. The wolves are grateful for our efforts.”

As if on cue, one of the beasts cautiously padded next to her. It was a huge creature up close, powerful and dangerous. Lissa was thankful she could appreciate its majesty and strength without fearing for her life. It bent its muzzle near her, its maw large enough to swallow her head whole. She reached out to scratch it behind the ears, the way she used to scratch her beloved Mabari back home. It closed it eyes submissively, and licked at an open wound at her temple. As she scratched around at its neck, her fingers caught hold on a cord.  
  
“What is this?” she asked. “There’s something on its neck.”  
  
Solas reached out, slipped his fingers into the thick, matted fur, and tugged on the chord. He pulled free an amulet, with an intricate carving of a wolf inlayed in the design. “A token, for the packmaster perhaps.” Solas pressed the amulet into her palm, and she closed round it tightly, reaching out to thank the creature with another scratch.  
  
“Thank you, friend.”

  



	7. A Good Deal

Leather, firewood, damp hay, and horse sweat: these scents were familiar and thick in the chill air as Lissa took care of her mount after a long, hard ride. Master Dennet had insisted he would care for the horses well, but Lissa understood the importance of the bond between horse and rider. As she took the time to unsaddle and clean the beautiful Ferelden mare, and wipe off the hard-earned sweat from its coat, she grew to appreciate the beast and the work it did. And as she brushed and coaxed down the coat back to being smooth and clean, the horse too appreciated her. _Much like the bond between a partner and dog_ , she thought with a pang of nostalgia. She had worked up a sweat, and now the muscles in her arms matched the dull burning ache of her thighs from the long ride. The cool breeze felt good against Lissa’s face, and she inhaled deeply of the warm scents, stealing a moment to enjoy the memories it brought with it. _Playing in the hay in the stables. The scent of leather from my brother’s saddle. The taste of blood when I fell off my mount the first time._

They flashed in fragments, bringing a gentle, wistful curve to her mouth and a twinge of longing to her chest. It had been so long since she had seen her family. She still remembered what it had been like when they received word the Circles fell.  
  
  
  
_  
  
Mages and Templars looked back and forth at one another warily, each unwilling to say the first word, make the first move. Tension mounted in the air, tangible and thick. It was her Enchanter who broke the silence. It had been easy after that. Everyone peacefully went their separate ways. And though she feared for what was to come, the possibilities of a life her own were more exciting than she could rationalize. “  
  
Lady Trevelyan,” Enchanter Harring called, and with him Captain Serran at his side. “Divine Justinia has asked for a meeting between Templars and Mages. She believes there is a solution for this … mess.”   
  
Lissa looked between the two, measuring their heavy gazes before asking, “Do you?”   
  
“We must trust the Divine. There must be some greater purpose to all of this suffering. If anyone can bring peace again…”   
  
Lissa nodded. Truly Divine Justinia was a woman unlike any other Divine before her. Even calling this meeting was a bold, hopeful move. “Will you be going, then?” “  
  
We will,” Captain Serran answered quickly. “And we’d like you to attend with us.”   
  
“What? Me?” She asked incredulously. “I am but a simple mage. Surely anything Enchanter Harring has to say would have greater bearing on anything than what I could offer.”   
  
“Lissa,” Harring said softly, more like a father to a daughter than student to teacher, “your influence…your family. It gives credence that I cannot. Your family ties to the Chantry go back for years, and you even know some of the Mothers by first name.”   
  
“And that your brother is a Templar does not hurt your station," Captain Serran added.   
  
She sighed. So she was stripped of all titles and claims to her estate until it was a matter of convenience? “I have no title,” she said more sharply than she intended. “And I have no claim to any of my family’s ties. You know this.”   
  
“_ _Lissa…”_  
  
Mages, her comrades, apprentices and masters, slowly gathered their meager belongings, sharing looks of concern. She could only imagine what was going through their minds. The same thing that was racing through hers. What would happen when they left the circle? What of the renegade Templars? Who would offer a Mage shelter? Looking at them, imagining them left like this, afraid and alone …   
  
"Write to my parents. Tell them … I leave in the morning for the Temple of Sacred Ashes as representative of House Trevelyan.”    
  
  
  
  


She reached for the pouch of water on her hip and greedily gulped the cold water down. Lissa waved to one of the keepers that her mare was ready for feeding. With a firm parting pat on its rump, she started off down the cobblestoned path towards her shelter. _What a strange way to arrive anywhere_ , she mused. The journey to the Conclave had not been an easy one. Long days on foot through difficult terrain with dangerous creatures and hazardous weather all while doing their best to avoid any of the fanatical rogue Templars. The trek had not been pleasant.

She paused to rub her temples. Everything about the journey to the Conclave had been so easy to remember. Why could not she remember what had actually happened there? Lazy snowflakes drifted from the sky. She lifted her face upwards, letting the stray flakes melt on her warm cheeks. The rift above her bled a virulent green into the dim twilight, a blatant reminder of the overwhelming fate that now held her. She looked down to her palm and sighed.   
  
“What’s brought on the long face?” a rough voice queried. She looked over to find Varric approaching slowly. A small knot wound up in her gut as her guilt bunched up inside. She still felt uneasy for lying to him. “Well” he continued, “aside from an ass-numbing trek across dangerous terrain, a giant hole in the Fade staring you down, and a glowing brand to keep you up at night?”   
  
She arched one brow sarcastically. “Other than those? Nothing.” That he was still in the mood to tease her set her mind at ease. Perhaps it would not be so hard to feel like she was his friend again after all.   
  
“On the bright side, think of what a thriller this will be when I write it into a novel! ‘When the Weird Gets Weirder: an unbelievably true story.’ It’ll be a sensation!” he gestured widely, imitating a bow to an invisible crowd.   
  
Lissa rolled her eyes. “Well, I’d like to hope the Maker has deeper plans than entertainment, but that is a possibility I suppose.”   
  
He crossed his arms about the girth of his chest. “And me rolling in royalties. Don’t forget that.”   
  
Lissa, feeling more and more redeemed as his friend by the minute, felt bold. She threw him a sidelong glance. “I’ll get a five percent share, and you will exclusivity.”   
  
He gawked. “Excuse me? When did you getting a percentage come into this? A-and _five_ percent?” his pitch raised incredulously. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’m not exactly wearing gold-studded armor here.”

She grinned mischievously. “No, you’re not. But your competition could be if I offer private information to _them_.” She paused, letting the full weight of the possibility be absorbed. “Just think how you could embellish the tale with Herald’s own thoughts and feelings coloring your wildly exaggerated tales of heroism.”   
  
He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm…you drive a hard bargain.” He rubbed the rings on his hand, and his lip curled to one side. “But I wouldn’t be a successful merchant if I didn’t take the time to inspect the goods. What sort of quality insights are you talking about here?”

Her lips pulled thin in a smug grin which Varric appreciated, though he would never admit it. “You know I can’t reveal specifics or I’d be losing my advantage. But…” her voice softened, and her eyes darted to the ground, “…I was thinking you might like to hear what I was feeling, thinking, remembering. All the details, even … even how the Fade affects my dreams, my mark, my fears and concerns… that is, if you’d be willing.” She swallowed the hard knot in her throat that had snuck up on her. After clearing her throat, she straightened, washing the softness from her expression and replacing it with the composure of a noble. “So, do we have a deal?”

Varric grinned warmly, not missing the attempt at subtlety. He cleared his throat, shifting his weight between his feet. “Well, I still think you gravely overestimate my book sales, but …” he outstretched a thick, gloved hand, “…you got yourself a deal, kid.” Her chest felt lighter, and she met his hand with a wide smile. “Now go get cleaned up. You smell like your horse.”   
  
Lissa feigned a look of offense, but her giggling did not make the act too convincing.   
  
“You can find me in the tavern when you’re done. Make knows I need it…” he grumbled, waving as he disappeared around the small bend.   
  
Lissa sighed, feeling inches taller. It was good to have a confidante among the ranks, and no one seemed more suited to the role than Varric. With lighter steps, she headed off to her cabin to wash.


	8. Night

Solas quietly mediated over his staff, cleansing it of any mana buildup their battles had left. In the midst of his concentration, he overheard the familiar bark of laughter drifting from the glowing tavern nearby, but it did not distract him. He knew the life of a soldier, had experienced its ways personally, and knew the necessity for such diversions. As he felt the accumulation of muddied mana begin to draw away from his staff, he allowed himself a smirk.

Yes, he’d had his own share of diversions in his day as a soldier, and had seen more than his share. Some, like these men, turned to drink, letting it numb and dull the physical and emotional pain of war. Others turned to physical exertion, like utter recklessness and abandon on the field while others put that physical tension to use in more intimate ways. The diversions of the soldier were fairly standard and easily supplied, which was a valuable tool in the hands of a general. Despite his distaste for Templars in general, their Commander had a skill for managing troops, both on and off the field. He allowed himself a glance to the sky as the last tingling remnants of buildup dissolved from his staff. The tear in the veil pulsed as innumerable powers pressed against it. It pained him to see the Fade in such turmoil. Some nights he could feel it roiling like a sick, stormy seas on a rare night. He sighed. _That_ had been his diversion. His place, his Fade. That, and his People.

A gentle humming floated freely between the small buildings, just barely audible over the bawdy banter of the busy tavern. The voice was warm and familiar, and it made easy work of a sweet little tune. As he expected, the unmistakable curtain of red hair – and the human that wore it – turned the corner just at the bend. Curious, he stole a moment to watch the Mage as she loitered near the door of the bar. Her shift in weight from foot to foot, and the nervous way in which she wrung both of her small hands together told him she was nervous. Odd, he wondered. Most people went to a bar to relax, and here it seemed to be the cause of her anxiety. And yet she continued to hum and greet each entering patron with a polite if not forced smile. His curiosity was now engaged, and he set his staff aside to meet her.

“Most guests prefer to enjoy the interior of a tavern, Inquisitor,” he teased in his cool, conceited manner, a crooked grin on his full lips.

She let out a serrated chuckle, tense with nerves, and her shoulders released a tension she had not realized she had been carrying. “Well, I’m actually meeting someone so…”

“So you prefer to wait in the cold, outside of the warm building?”

Her breath caught in her chest and her brows cinched together. Her breath came out in a slow exhale, and a puff of white filled the chill air. “That … doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

“You see my confusion.” He grinned smugly. “Have you a reason to avoid the inviting atmosphere? It is _supposed_ to be inviting, after all.”

She huffed, blowing away a stray strand. “It’s just that … I’m not sure I will actually feel comfortable in there. I …” she turned away, hoping to hide how sheepish she felt. “I’ve never actually been to a tavern or anything like it before …”

“Oh?” How could he have missed it? Of _course_ she had never been to anything of the sort, seeing how nearly her entire life had been spent in a prison. “Have they nothing similar in your Circles?”

“Ha!” she exclaimed, shaking her head. “You really haven’t been to a Circle before, have you?”

The insinuation that he knew nothing of Circles rankled him a bit. “I have seen all of then I care to in the Fade,” he replied coolly as he straightened his back. “The makeshift prisons of Thedas have little to teach me, and what images the Fade chooses to revisit are not always pleasant ones.”

“Mhmm, well, _Apostate_ ,” she pestered, “maybe I can tell you all about it sometime. But I’m sure my experiences behind stone towers would pale in comparison to any horror you might visit in the Fade. I’d hate to waste your time.” Her lips pursed to hold back a playful smile, but it twinkled in her amber eyes.

“It would indeed be a challenge on your part to interest me on the affairs of the Towers, but perhaps I might learn something of you, instead.”

She shifted uncomfortably, and her cheeks blossomed a delicate pink. _No doubt from the cold_ , he pondered. “Perhaps the person for whom you wait would prefer if you waited inside. I doubt your friend would be interested in seeing you freeze before he arrives.”

Her head tilted, an inquisitive look twisting her features. “How did you know my friend was male?” She could not think of anything she had done differently, but obviously there was something for him to have noticed. “You’re quite intuitive!”

Solas straightened. The compliment soothed his ego. “It was a quick choice of words, nothing more. But it does please me to know that my guess was correct. If I may ask, who is the unfortunate man who makes you wait in the cold?”

She rolled her eyes. “I think we’ve already established I’m suffering of my own choosing. And the man is-"

“Right here!” Varric interrupted, arms spread wide as if the entire tavern were waiting on his arrival. “What? No welcoming committee?” He cast a sidelong glance. “Why are you waiting out here? It’s colder than Chuckle’s smile.”

“I had tried to convince her to wait indoors, but she would not be moved,” Solas explained, ignoring the dwarf’s remark.

“What? And miss out on your company? I can’t imagine…” Varric crossed his arms, looking up at the Apostate from under his brows. “Who wouldn’t want to hear about the Fade some more?”

Lissa brought her hand up to hide a giggle. “Varric, be kind. Besides,” she shot Solas a look of meaning, “I don’t think it would be that much of a _challenge_ to be interested in what he has to say. I find I always learn something from our conversations.”

“Well met,” he admitted, picking up on her implications. “Perhaps I can share what I’ve witnessed in the Fade after you tell of your experiences in the Circle.”

She grinned, her lips curving gently, and it met her kind eyes.

“Well, you two can talk about your Magey stuff on your own time. I’m afraid the Herald has a prior engagement with a rather interesting individual.” He tugged on his jacket and grinned smugly before opening the door.

The interior light spilled out, splitting the pair of mages in two, lighting Lissa in bright warmth and cutting off Solas in the chill dark. Solas thought that she seemed so at home at she stepped up into the doorway, the torchlight setting her ruby hair ablaze. As Lissa turned to bid him goodnight, she was suddenly struck by a chill no firelight could dispel. The Elvhen Apostate stood, alone in the dark, with sharp eyes that glinted through the dark. The moonlight set his figure in sharp relief, and his smile held a predatory curve. But that was surely a trick of the light.  
  
_What an odd feeling._  
  
“Goodnight, Solas,” she said softly, her voice timid.  
  
His reply came crisply like a winter wind. “Goodnight, Herald.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update this time! Sorry!!! I am nearly finished illustrating the children's book, and I had a last meeting with the publisher. Once all of that wraps up, I'll finally have time to get this story out of my head. I can't tell you how thrilled I am that other people enjoy it, too! <3 All of your kudos and kind comments are so encouraging! Please enjoy!


	9. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Perhaps it is a good time to make camp?” Lissa suggested meekly. Her legs, numb from the many hours on horseback, were aching to be stretched.  
  
“If there were a suitable location, perhaps,” Cassandra replied as she took a moment to scan their location. “But I do not think we will find an optimum site for several more miles yet.”  
  
“Oh,” Lissa replied dejectedly.  
  
“There are still several hours of daylight left. I would like to see them put to good use,” the Seeker asserted.

“Onward it is, then,” Lissa forced a grin. She had no idea how Cassandra could do it. The entire time she had remained upright in her saddle, heavy armor and all, and her eyes were locked on the horizon, always fixed on the goal. As if gifted with supernatural strength, she seemed to never weary. If it weren’t for the fact that they shared the same tent, she would think the Seeker incapable of rest or sleep. Lissa shifted as inconspicuously as she could, trying to bring some sense of feeling to her bottom.  
  
“You know, Red,” Bull began, eliciting an immediate grimace from Lissa, “there are ways to help you relax. It’s a technique the Qunari use to get rid of those pesky riding aches.”  
  
“Oh!” she wondered aloud, surprised at his seemingly genuine generosity. Always eager to learn, she made the mistake of asking before Varric opened his mouth to warn her. “What is it?”  
  
“Well, you’d probably prefer I show you when we stop for camp. It’s not something that is normally done on the road, but it wouldn’t be the first.” He smiled crookedly, a dubious glint in his eye. “But if you’re _into_ that sort of thing…I’d be happy to oblige.”

His tone finally bringing the insinuation to light, Lissa sighed heavily, shaking her head.

“You know, I rather think he likes seeing you flustered, my dear,” Dorian offered. “It only encourages him, I’m afraid.”  
  
She turned her face towards the road, straightening her back in defiance. “He does seem to have a penchant for discussing intimate matters rather publicly…”  
  
“Oh, come on. It’s no surprise people _do it_. How do you think you got here?” Bull shrugged.  
  
Lissa’s face turned a shade to match her hair. She stammered over her words and resigned to another great sigh, turning her head down to stare at the reigns. She was grateful for the stray strands of hair that fell into her face, and for the shadow they cast over her bashful expression.  
  
“I think ahead looks like a wonderful campsite! I’ll go scout it out!” With a swift kick to her mount’s flank, she charged off at a gallop, dusting her comrades in a thin layer of dirt.  
  
Varric waved and choked in a sudden fit of coughs, and Cassandra grimaced in displeasure.  
  
“Really, darling,” Vivienne started, guiding her mare siding up next to Bull in a pretty trot, “is it possible to control yourself? These silks don’t wash themselves you know, and I doubt your hedonistic desires have the powers to clean them, do you?”

If ever Bull could appear sheepish, it was now. “No, Madame.” He cleared his throat in a cough. “Of course, Madame.”  
  
“I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding.” Head held ever high and the picture of cool composure, the Grand Enchantress clicked her tongue, and her trotted off at a crisp clip ahead of them.  
  
“Well….yes, I think that will be a classic scene in my novel!” Varric quipped.

 

* * *

 

As the orange orb began to touch the crest of the distant mountains, the company had found a site suitable for camp. Cassandra surveyed the land, and with a satisfactory nod, led their band to dismount and begin preparations. The warrior slipped from her mount and gave it an approving pat on the haunch. “Good girl,” she murmured softly as she pressed her palm to its muscular muzzle.  
  
The radiating heat began to subside as the mountains began to cast long shadows. The warrior found the accompanying breeze a welcome partner as she labored, hammering the tent stakes into the hard packed earth. With a puff, she blew the dripping sweat off the end of her peaked nose.

Only a few paces away, rhythmic hammering accompanied her off time, ringing through the air in a jagged but stubborn tempo. She took a moment to look, and was surprised to find the former Grand Enchantress putting herself to work. With her horned headdress and outer robes removed, the mage spared no thought for style. She had her mind set to work. Vivienne grunted in effort, but never complained. Her lithe muscles wriggled beneath her smooth skin with each swing of the mallet, and the beading sweat made her skin shine like polished drakestone. Cassandra had not considered the Lady de Fer, with her silks and impractical attire, could handle the demands of necessity. But not once did the mage shrink from a task. Cassandra may have found her lifestyle deplorable, but her determination was to be admired.

 

“I had expected you to avoid the grittier details of life on the road. You have surprised me.”

Vivienne paused, slaking away the gathered sweat on her brow with the back of her hand. “Darling, I did not attain my level of success without getting my hands dirty. Anyone who aspires to greatness cannot think hard work beneath them.”

“I agree,” the warrior nodded, “and I am glad to hear it. When we are out here, we must be able to rely on each of us to do our share.”  
  
“Naturally, dear.”

 

 

* * *

Lissa bent down next to the cool stream, her knees indenting the moist grass and earth of the bank. She cupped her hands in the clear water and eagerly brought it to her dry lips. Greedily, she gulped down the fresh water, enjoying the cold trail trickling down to her belly. After washing the dust of the trip from her face and arms, she sighed satisfactorily. After restraining her hair to fresh braid, she set to her task of filling up the company’s water pouches. After she had filled nearly thirty pouches, she secured them with the leather straps to her staff, carefully balancing the weight on both sides. With a grunt, she lifted the staff onto her shoulders, carrying it back to the thirsty soldiers.

Though the burden was heavy and awkward with the pouches swinging to and fro, Lissa did not complain. It felt good to stretch her legs again. She softly hummed as she wove throughout the campsite, delivering water to their members.  
  
“Maker bless you, Herald.” 

“Thank you, Herald!” 

“Ah, Herald! Y’ shunnave.”

She meekly waved off their remarks. “The Maker asks we share each other’s burdens. I’m simply doing a small part.”  
  
Her burden halved, she made her way towards her tent. Some hewn trunks and smooth stones were arranged near a pile of twigs and logs arranged in preparation for a fire. Dorian and Varric were circled around it, and most were somewhere nearby.  
  
“Here,” she offered the fresh bladder of water to the Tevinter mage.

He accepted it with a gleaming smile. “You really are thoughtful.” 

Lissa beamed a wide, innocent smile, pleased to have been helpful. 

“You know, it’s a shame you find flirting so distasteful. It is just so tempting, you sheltered dear.” 

Lissa rolled her eyes. “I don’t find flirting distasteful. I find it . . . _unusual_. And frankly futile." It was far easier to admit that it was a vain habit of those seeking attention than to admit she simply was terrible at it. For whatever reason, (she assumed it to be a curse of the Maker) any attempts she made at being flirtatious and seductive usually met with very clumsy and embarrassing ends. "Besides, - here you are, Varric – I don’t even _know_ Bull, and he doesn’t know me! It’s all very forward and not at all . . . _meaningful_. Though,” she said with a huff, “that seems to be a part of his character." She chuckled. "Have you any idea how he introduced himself to me?”  
  
“Oh, this is a good one,” She heard of Varric mutter beneath his breath.  

“I can only imagine. Please, enlighten me,” Dorian chuckled. 

“It was me, Solas, Varric, and Cassandra. As we near the coast, we catch wind of fighting near the shore. Cassandra had taken vanguard, and we charged in to help. When we got nearer, we saw this small but mighty band of fighters being attacked by these blighted things. After the fight, Krem directed me to their leader, this huge Qunari who was hard to miss. Before I even start to introduce myself or the Inquisition, he says,” she dropped her voice in pitch and cinched one eye closed. “’Hey, a red head! You know what would look really good on you?’” She looked at Dorian expectantly for an answer. He fought to keep a laugh inside, an effort that showed in his twitching mustache. The look on her face, the way she was bent over, and the staff with pouches hung over her shoulders gave her the faintest resemblance to a pack druffalo. Finally, the laugh wriggled free, and he decided to play along.  
  
“Alright, I’ll play. What?”  
  
“Me!” she bellowed.  
  
Laughter erupted all around, and Lissa grinned, her chest blooming with warmth. “Well, if nothing else, it makes a good story,” she admitted as she finished passing out the remaining jugs, waiting for the soldiers to take their fill before heading back to the stream for more fresh water. After several trips, their thirst was finally slaked, and she was free to wash and prepare for the night. _But still no sign of Solas…_ she wondered.  
  
The sun sank lower, barely visible behind the jagged outline of mountains. The breeze cooled, chilling the sweat that gathered on her brow. The purple gloaming was sprinkled with twinkling stars and a few clouds painted with the warm light of sunset. The birdsong diminished, and the cooling, humid air carried instead the sounds of the evening: croaking frogs, the rhythmic chirping of crickets, and the soothing lull of the trickling stream. Despite the evening charms, she knew she should not linger. With all its beauty, the dark wild brought with it equal dangers.  
  
After washing her face and arms, she sighed satisfactorily, and pulled herself up from the bank with her staff. As she turned to head back to camp, a sudden rustling in the underbrush startled her. She turned, aiming her staff at the sound to light the area. “Solas?” Cautiously, she moved toward the sound, away from the bank and into the thickening woods.  
  
Each twig snapped under foot made her pulse quicken, every harmless rustle sent her skin crawling with anticipation. Perhaps it was nothing. But it could be a cloaked assassin, and with her poor eyesight… Her mouth suddenly went dry and a nervous heat boiled to the top of her head. As her heartbeat drummed in her ears, she carefully squinted, trying to see into the dim twilight. With her hand on her staff, she called out to her inner supply of mana, letting it tingle to the surface, waiting for her command. “Who’s there?” she dared to question. Suddenly out of the bushes jumped a fennec fox, squealing in shock as it scurried away. She sighed heavily, relieved that it had been nothing at all but feeling a bit foolish just the same _. How silly. It was just a fox_.  
  
As she climbed over fallen logs and the thick piles of leaves covering the forest floor, something unusual caught her eye. A small patch of leaves had been smoothed out, cleared of any branches or brush. And in the center, a familiar bedroll was nestled in the heap.  Her mouth split into a grin, and any thought of the dangers of night were forgotten. _Solas!_

_So that’s where he has been hiding away from everyone._ But the bedroll was empty, and he was nowhere in her sight. Former caution aside, she made her way into the clearing, hoping to find some sign of the Elf.  
  
“Stop! Wait!”  
  
The warning came too late.  



	10. Sparks

“Stop! Wait!”  
  
The warning came too late, and her next step was met with severe punishment. Gripping pain shot through her foot and climbed up her right leg. The immobilizing jolt shocked up her entire right side until it seared her vision with white. Her stomach fluttered with the sensation of falling. Something struck her head, and everything went black.  
  
* * *  
  
Fragile pieces of consciousness connected, but in all the wrong order. In cloudy confusion, she tried to fit the pieces back together, a task made more difficult by the throbbing pulse in her ears. Eventually, confusion gave way to clarity and the dull throb was replaced with a brief, shrill ringing. Her eyes fluttered open, and her mind was able enough to ask, “What happened?” It had been nothing but blinding white pain, a tingling numbness, and then everything went black. Her thoughts swam as she tried to pull herself upright, but something was wrong. Her legs were completely paralyzed. Panic surged through her being immediately.

Suddenly, an astringent, tangy scent opened her sinuses, and the tint of singed grass brought the answer:

She had stepped on a lightning ward.  
  
The warning made sense now _. How stupid_. She should have sensed the faint tingle, the excited charge of magic in the area before making such a novice mistake as stepping on an active ward. A ward that must have been set by –

“Solas?” she asked, shifting around to check on him.  
  
The Apostate lay unconscious on the ground next to her, his arm trapped awkwardly under him. _The lightning must have arced between us when he grabbed me…_ Though it took considerable effort without the use of her legs, she did manage to roll him over onto his back using her staff to gain some leverage. _He would probably berate me for reducing my staff to working like a shovel_ , she thought with a chuckle. Aside from a possible sprain, he appeared to be otherwise whole and well, a thought that brought her unexpected comfort. A tightness dug into her chest, subtle but constant. Brushing it off as relief, she spared a moment to examine him further.  
  
His expression, most often hardened with severity, had softened. Shallow lines creased at the corners of his eyes and curved under a rim of thick of lashes. He seemed older than she first imagined, but then she was not so sure. A spray of freckles dusted his high cheekbones and travelled along the sharp outline of his jaw. An attractive dimple in his chin led down to the muscular column of his slender neck.  
  
A sense of shame brought a heat to her cheeks and she instantly drew her gaze back to his closed eyes. As her heart slowed to a normal pace, she argued with herself.  
  
_Why the embarrassment? It’s not a crime to appreciate attractiveness in someone…_   It's not as if she were wishing anything. She was simply noticing. With total privacy bolstering her courage, she swallowed.  
  
Her eyes went back to scanning his visage, taking in every detail. As she did, a gentle grinned curved her lips and a warmth settled in her chest. Solas was so often…what was the word? _Not reserved,_ she thought with a smirk. He never shied away from telling people how very often he was right. And he was not distant, not really. He was, after all, a willing, active member of their team. But she felt as if for everything he said there was a thousand more things left unsaid, as if he wanted them to know something.  
  
She shook her head and a rogue curl sprung from her braid to dangle in her eyes. With a huff, she blew it out of her face. _Then why not just say it directly? Do you enjoy playing games, veiling everything in layers?_  
  
_Obscure? No, that isn’t it_. Her gaze fell on his lips, now slightly parted as he took in deep breaths. She noticed his head angled uncomfortably, and wrested off her cloak. With care, she nestled it under the crook of his neck and gently laid his head back. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she let her fingertips slip from his skin. As she checked on her charge, she noticed two blue-grey eyes starting back at her.

A tightness clenched her chest, and her tongue pressed against the roof of her mouth as she fought to hold her composure. How long had he been awake? She waited for what seemed too long, and he still remained silent, his expressionless gaze boring into her.  
  
“You’re awake! I’m glad.” She forced her face to work into a smile. He continued to watch her, wordless. When he still did not speak, she pressed on. “Are you alright?”

“For having lost all feeling in my lower half, I am as well as can be expected.” He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked into the deepening twilight. Judging by the shift in the light, he figured he must have been out for nearly half hour. “Considering the strength of my wards, you are fortunate I was there to take the brunt of it. Did they not teach you of wards in the Circle?”

Her cheeks darkened and her jaw clenched. “Well, yes, of course they did. It’s just – I was excited to have found you, and I didn’t think…I’m sorry.”

“You of all people should know better, especially being a Mage. Such a lack of discretion could cost you your life.” He turned, his eyes narrowing and his voice softening to low hum.  "We cannot afford for you to take such risks. You are absolutely invaluable."

Lissa felt her stomach twist at his words, but she knew better than to think he, an Apostate Elf, could mean anything more than business. Still, the tone in his voice…

"You bear the mark. You should not wander alone."

And there it was. She swallowed, straightening and adopting the tone fitting of a Lady of House Trevelyan. "It was novice of me and perhaps not conceived with great forethought. I apologize."

Her tone was more even and measured, her usual transparency missing. Perhaps she thought her distant tone would hide what she thinking, but it revealed more than she could know. Something he had said had irritated or injured her.

_How interesting._

"We will be immobilized for the better part of an hour, I would imagine," he commented, reaching for his staff. He dug the butt of the shaft into the ground, pulling himself up straighter with it. "I do not set frivolous wards. You are lucky I do not make them lethal." A gust of wind coursed through the woods, rattling the bare twigs and rustling the piled leaves. The scent of the air changed, the warm humidity being replaced by the tang of oncoming rain.

"Lucky?" She scoffed. "You would be the only person to say that. Well, aside from Varric. But he knows as well as I do that these situation rarely end well for those caught in the center." She reached out, yanking out a bit of nearby grass and tearing it into pieces absently. The little bits of torn grass fluttered away on the light breeze, landing silently in the dirt a stone's throw away.

A single fleck of rain dropped on his cheek. A low, distant rumble heralded a storm and the creaking branches echoed the call. Lissa outstretched her hand and sighed. With her exhale, she let her head fall back against the trunk of the tree and looked up through the branches expectantly.

"You do not consider yourself lucky?"

"No, for that would mean I believe in luck." The _plick-plick-plick_ of rain began pattering on the leaves above them. She waited with a smile and upturned palms for the cool droplets.

"Fate, then?"

"In a manner of speaking. Although, fate is … rather _damning_. I do not believe that we are powerless to affect the course of our lives, but I also believe the Maker ordains such things to be as they are."

 

He felt his jaw stiffen at her religion. "Did they teach you that in the Circle?"

"Teach me that? No. They taught me Andraste. I never did care for her..."

His brows raised in genuine surprise. A human Mage of the Circles who openly admits to denying the Andrastian faith?

"And yet you allow them to call you Herald?"

She chuckled. "Does it really matter what I am? Besides,” she turned to him with a crooked grin, “you’re the one who said ‘posturing was necessary.’” Her voice softened again, and she took a moment to consider her words. “There's something rather ... discomforting about a religion that claims truth but then is applied to only one race. If it is true, why is it not true for _everyone_? The Maker…he had to make everything. Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Spirits, even Mages, despite how the Chantry makes us feel." Her voice was low and quiet, and her head bowed to look at her hands resting in her lap. This wasn't the first time she had admitted that, he could tell. She rolled the torn strand of grass between her fingers as she spoke. Without raising her head, she questioned softly, "Do you think it silly?"

"Silly? I find it unusual. But I too favor the thought of a Higher Being who first began all of this, set it into motion."

Her face upturned to meet the heavier drops with a smile as they began to shower through the leaves. "Oh, I believe it's more than that, Solas." Her eyes twinkled, and her face brightened with genuine conviction. "The rain, the wind, the fact that I have breathe every morning, all of these are gifts of the Maker. Even this … this mark I must count as a blessing. I cannot control those things. I can only control what I do with them. At least, that is what I believe."

This human woman was truly intriguing and not at all like the rest he had met. “You have a rare insight into the realm of faith, not one I have seen in a human before.”

“Then in whom?”

He tilted his head. “What?”

“Then in whom have you seen it?”

“In a friend.”  
  
The sound of the rain intensified as the droplets came rushing down to the earth, crashing through the leaves and branches before splashing down onto the earth. A bolt of lightning cracked the sky, and the flash brightened the dark between them in blinding flickers. Even in the dark, he could see her smile.  
  
“You like the rain?”

She shook her head, soaked tendrils swinging and sticking to her face. “No, the storms!” she called out loudly over the torrent of water.

As clouds rolled overhead, the boom of thunder shaking the ground, and lighting splitting the sky, she seemed at peace though soaked to the bone. As the downpour lightened, and the roar of the rain lessened to a constant shush, she began to feel a tingling sensation in her toes.  
  
“I think I’m getting some feeling back!” she said with a grin.  
  
Soon, both mages were standing, shaking feeling back into their legs.

“It doesn’t appear this rain will pass anytime soon,” Solas remarked, looking up at the sky and discreetly sniffing the air. “I shall return to camp.”  
  
Lissa grinned. “Oh good. It’ll be nice to have company on the way back. Besides the thunder, that is.”

With practiced ease, he had his bedroll and belonging cinched and slung over his back. “It is obvious you enjoy storms. I find it odd I had not realized this before now.” His feet squished in the damp earth, and he was careful to step on the grassier portions of the path.  
  
“I don’t get to enjoy them much when they do happen. The best storms are on the coast, but every time we’re there, there is a pressing mission and no time to just sit and watch.” She chuckled. “In a way, I’m glad I accidentally ran into your ward. It forced me to sit and enjoy myself.”

“A positive outlook,” he quipped with a grin. “I enjoyed myself as well. Although, I would be curious as to why storms, and not simply rain, have garnered your favor. ”

She chuckled. “You have such funny ways of saying things,” she quipped. She hesitated to answer, carefully stepping over a root jutting into the path. He watched as she mentally measured her words, curious as to why such a simple question would require such forethought. Finally, her voice came softly.

“Have you always been free, like the Dalish?”

“I am not Dalish,” he quickly replied with a scowl. “They have little to offer me. But I have always been free to practice magic, if that is what you ask.”

She paused, noting with narrowed eyes his distaste for the Dalish culture. “Have you ever known captivity of any kind? Suppression?”

“Ah, you speak of the Circle. I have never lived in one, but I do know something of suppression,” he replied, understanding softening his tone.

“I didn’t always think of the Circle as a prison. And it wasn’t. Not really. My lot was far easier than most Mages. I consider myself fortunate. Still…” she sighed as she avoided a puddle in the center of the path, “when I realized I wasn’t just going there to learn to control my magic, but to live out the entirety of my life behind those stone walls, always looking out…”

Solas felt a spark inside his chest. It set to fire all his pride, his distaste for imbalanced supremacy and control. Humans had done the same to Elves in the past because they didn’t understand them. But their prejudice was not limited to race; their lust for power and control had them enslaving and devaluing anything that they did not understand, demonizing things that they feared.

“When I looked at my Enchanter, aged as he was, I realized then why he felt like a father figure; I would not be raised by mine, and he would never have children of his own. I didn’t want that.” 

Her knuckles whitened on her staff. “I waited for the storms. The really big, terrifying ones. I would watch from the window as the lightening herded the metal-clad Templars indoors, watch as water, which could be so soft, would wash away the stone borders in a flood. I kept wishing for a storm big enough to knock the walls down, to set me free …” She tilted her chin up to the sky, a twinge of guilt twisted inside her chest. “I hadn’t meant to wish for something like the rift…”  
  
He reached out instinctively, a hand gripping her shoulder. He met her eyes with an imperative gaze, his voice strict with authority. “ _You_ did not set the stage for this tragedy with wishes.”

He was insistent, and somehow protective. It was comforting and oddly unsettling. There was a demand in his eyes that would not be denied, and yet his touch was gentle, reassuring.  
  
With a firm squeeze, he punctuated his statement before turning back towards camp. “Come. We should head back to camp.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, back at camp:   
> 


	11. Impossible

Lissa took a deep breath of air, calming her nerves. Determined, she raised her hand and rapped her knuckles against the harsh wood of the thick door.   
  
“Enter,” a commanding voice permitted.   
  
She swallowed the hard knot in her throat, pushed the groaning door aside, and stepped in. “Commander, I – oh! I’m sorry.”   
  
Leliana and Josephine stood on either side of the former Templar, his appearance more impressive next to their slender, feminine builds. They were both made of graceful lines and sweeps, and he was – _not_. Josephine garbed in her soft, voluminous ruffles, and Leliana cloaked with clandestine intentions. Both contrasted the Commander’s firm build and obvious demeanor.

She bent in a short, quick bow. “I didn’t realize you were organizing. I can come back later.”   
  
“Not at all,” Josephine said with a smile, quickly stepping around the worn table to meet her. “What brings you in, Herald?”   
  
She looked past Josephine to the jagged features of Cullen, his eyes narrowed and brows furrowed. Her heart began to quicken behind her breasts. “Well, I had actually wanted to discuss some concerns with the Commander.” She paused, measuring the change in his gaze. “About Templars.”   
  
“I see,” Josephine courteously acknowledged. “I’m sure the Commander could spare a moment to ease your concerns.”   
  
He appeared to open his mouth, about to speak, when Leliana cut in. “Of course. It would be in all our best interest to hear what your perspective allows us. We can come back another time, can’t we, Commander?”

“Well, I –“ He pursed his lips as if holding back a sigh. “Of course, Herald. I’d be happy to hear your concerns.”

She waited, shifting her weight between her feet until the two ladies were gone. Josephine, as intuitive as ever, sensed her unease and pressed a squeeze on her shoulder before she left. The doors closed behind with a thud. She looked across the desk, the complicated plans laid out on the details map marked with pieces to indicate different actions and goals. Just beyond the wars plans stood the former Templar, arms crossed against his broad breastplate and imposing fur collar adding bulk to his already wide shoulders.

“You have reservations regarding the Templars, Herald? I’d like to hear them.”

“Well, yes, actually. First, do you think you could simply call me ‘Lissa?’” She chuckled nervously. “The title is a bit too grand for my taste. It also is … rather heavy.”

“If you wish, Hera – Lissa,” he corrected. Her name sounded uncomfortable on his tongue, as if he couldn’t grasp that she just a human woman, not some holy manifestation. “I will do my best.”   
  
She grinned. “I feel I should mention…my family, the Trevelyans, have a long history with the Chantry.” Her hands slipped behind her back. She feared her nerves getting the best of her, leaving her to gesture like a flailing street prophet. Instead, she interlocked her fingers at the small of her back. “My brother, Rupert, is a Templar, actually. Or was. I’m…not sure anymore. It has been a long time since I’ve heard from him. You don’t happen to know if he’s…” her eyes dared to meet his, a question drawn across her face.

He met her eyes with a strangely comforting look in return, one of genuine sympathy, which she did not expect. His arms dropped to his sides and he leaned against the table. “I’ve not heard anything. But if you wish, I could look into it for you.”

She shook her head, looking down at the table. “No, it’s alright. Really. I’ve not heard from him since I was handed over to the Circle as a young girl. He was in training when I left, and they would not let me see my brother, being a Mage. If something happened, and he had to…” she swallowed. “It would have been too hard on him.”

“Yes, it would have been.”   
  
“I’m sorry.” She waved her hand, clearing the air of her emotions as she batted away the moisture in her eyes. “I didn’t actually come here to discuss familial matters. You know of our encounter with Seeker Lucius?”

All sympathy left his tone, the sharp edge of a knight returning. “Yes. It is unusual, but I still believe the Templars are our best chance at helping you seal the Breech.”

“Yes, yes I know you think that. But…I guess I want to know _why_.” Bolder now, her hands left her back and she began to use the length of the room, each step hastening her thoughts. “One tells me to seek the Mages, and others tell me to seek the Templars. But aside from personal viewpoints, what actual reason is there for me to consider going to talk to the Templars, after Seeker Lucius clearly does not want to see me again?”

His voice was passionate, emphatic. “We – the Templars – are trained to handle these situations! It is _exactly_ why the Order is in place. To protect and suppress out of control magic. And if _anything_ , this Breech is out of control.” His fist connected with the table, setting some pieces to wobbling before clattering to the floor. The torchlight flickered, deepening the lines in his thoughtful face. “And it is magic! Bringing in the Mages could only inflame the problem. And if that happens…I don’t know that even the Templars could stop it.”   
  
“I agree.”

He looked up from the war table, a confused look on his face. “What?”

She sighed, shaking her head. “I agree with you, Commander. I see a great potential for danger if we try to use magic against it unchecked. It is an opening to the Fade. I can’t see how dumping magic directly into it would be good for us _or_ the Fade.”   
  
“An interesting point of view…but you’ll forgive me if I’m more concerned about our lives here.”   
  
“I will not.”

“Excuse me?”

“That attitude is not forgivable. The Fade is inexplicably connected to our reality. To dismiss it is dangerous. We cannot ignore that.”  
  
He shook his head, a tired, lopsided grin tugging at his lips. He ran his thick fingers through his sandy hair. “You sound like the Apostate.” His voice was strained with annoyance.

She crossed her arms. “Solas? Well, then perhaps I’ve learned something from him. You could too, if you listen.”

The crackling of the torch filled the space between them, the little shadows of the place-markers darting to and fro along the map.   
  
“So you’ll go see the Templars?”   
  
“Yes, I’ll go talk to the Templars again. Something about my encounter with the Lord Seeker didn’t set right, and I feel it needs more investigating. Still, you should know I have no intention of ignoring the Mages.”   
  
“But I thought you said-“

She interrupted. “I said I feared that pouring magic into the Breech is bad idea, if left unchecked. I believe that the solution is for the Templars to be present while the Mages attempt to seal the Breech.”   
  
“You can’t be serious.”   
  
“I am entirely.”   
  
He pressed his fingers to his temples, his head aching from the thought. “You do realize that bringing the two together was what started this mess?”   
  
“And maybe it is this mess that will put them back together correctly, of their own will.”   
  
He sighed, shaking his head. “You do set your sights on the impossible…”   
  
“I stepped out of the Fade. It seems the realm of the impossible is much nearer now.” She looked down to her left hand at the mark branded onto her skin.   
  
His eyes narrowed on her, studying her, and he smiled approvingly. “You may be right. I certainly won’t try to stop you. Only…what you want to do will not make you many allies.”   
  
She raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t protecting me your job, Commander?”   
  
He crossed his arms again, widening his stance. “I suppose it is. If you have any further questions about the Templars…”   
  
“I know where to find you.”   
  
“Good luck, Herald.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the short but necessary chapter! More to come! <3


	12. Mortal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Merwild on tumblr for this beautiful image of Lissa! 
> 
>  

“Oy, why she’d pick that _tit-shit_ over me, I dunno,” a drunken voice with thick accent wailed through the walls of the small tavern. “I wouldn’t shoot ‘em right away. Steal their breeches first, walking _metal-men_.” A giddy burst of giggles fueled by alcohol cackled through the thin walls.  
  
Solas sneered as he passed the building. Sera’s raucous behavior was grating, but he did share a similar complaint: Lissa had asked him to remain while she met with the Templars.  
  
_“It’s not that I don’t want your help, Solas,” she had said, standing by while grunt soldiers packed their mounts with gear. “You’ve been invaluable. It’s just…”_  
  
“You think I won’t behave.”  
  
Her eyes widened in shock. “No, not at all. But you are an Apostate. Since my family is close to the Chantry, and my brother is a Templar…” She sighed. “I just thought that with tensions the way they are, they might respond better to me. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

And so he remained at Haven, while Cassandra, Varric, and Vivienne of all people had travelled with her.  
  
How could they be so short-sighted? To take with her a Mage who supported the Circles could push back any sort of progress they had made so far. But he had to admit it was a shrewd maneuver. By selecting her companions carefully, she placed herself in their favor.  
  
Perhaps the most rankling was that she had thought to protect him. Protect him! It irritated him how pleased he had been to hear her say it. No, he scolded himself. He did not come to their aid in order to make friends. He wouldn’t be staying long, anyways.  
  
He did not need her friendship.  
  
Still, it was amusing to think that she had thought to protect him. _After all_ , he thought _, had I not come here to protect her and the magic she now carries?_  
  
*    *    *

The magic was easily sensed, having been born of his own foci. In an odd way, it was like a part of him was now drifting around, separated from his body.

It was also why he possessed lingering guilt about the Conclave.

That was why he arrived, politely knocking at Haven’s door. He was equally amused and annoyed at the befuddled looks and murmurs. A rather severe woman, Seeker Pentaghast by name, roughly escorted him to her command post. She was frazzled and angry but also hungry for answers, answers he proposed he could find – if he could talk to the prisoner.

The woman scoffed. “Well, you can examine the prisoner all you like, but I doubt you will be talking.”

The elf scowled. “Why?”

 

He followed her through their small encampment settled on the brink of the destruction. Her pace was determined, and he hustled to keep up with her. He ignored the questioning glances from the suspicious onlookers and the burning gaze of the guards that bore into him as he passed.

 _Fools_ , he noted as he watched the trembling hands of the youth soldier carrying his staff _. Suspicious, narrow-minded creatures, humans. So little has changed_ , he lamented bitterly.

Suddenly, he felt a tug, a lurch from his gut, and the rip in the sky belched a violent pulse. The force yanked on the partnering magic housed in the small shack tucked in the rear of camp just ahead of them.

Sharp cursing and clattering erupted from inside the cabin, and Cassandra raced around the last turn, one hand on her hilt at the ready. He, too, quickened his pace, and all the guards with them.

The Seeker burst through the door with such force it bounced backwards, nearly shutting in his face. Instantly, he was assaulted with the astringent scents of tonics and potions and human sweat.

“The prisoner?” Cassandra demanded.

“Not…well!” a male voice answered, his voice quaking with the effort of a struggle. Cassandra waived for the Apostate to enter. He obliged with a small nod and crossed the threshold.

 _How interesting_.

The healer was struggling to still the prisoner’s flailing form, a human form, and female at that.

“Are you going to keep gawking or – oof!” he grunted as her body hitched violently and knocked the wind out of him. “Or do you have some valuable reason for bothering me?”

“Adan, this is Solas, he is –“

“Here to help,” he simplified, making his way to the prisoner.

He knelt down next to the rickety cot and paused before them. “May I?”

“By all means!” the man barked.

Solas knelt down next to the woman. Waves of magic rolled off of her form, much more than any mortal body could handle. He could feel the pull of the rift and this world, and the force of the two was tearing her apart.

_So much magic coursing through this mortal…_

Carefully, he outstretched his hand and pressed his palm to her feverish, clammy forehead. He willed the ancient magic to calm, and it slowly responded to his familiar commands. Adan stared in disbelief, slack jawed and irritated.

“Well…that’s…something. H-how did you do that?”

Solas grinned. “I did not study in a Circle, and therefore am not limited to your sanctioned methods.”

Adan studied him sidelong. “So you’re…”

“An Apostate, yes,” Cassandra answered quickly. “And he has freely volunteered to aid us.”

“Unconventional…but right now, I’ll take all the help I can get.”

The woman’s form was calm on the outside, her body limp and her chest slowly rising and falling, but on the inside, he knew the painful truth of her struggle.

“Seeker, your patient is being greatly affected by the rift and is worsening as it grows stronger.”

“What does that mean, Apostate?” she growled, her limited patience well worn.

“It means I very much doubt she will recover.”

“Find a way!” she barked. “I still need to ask her some questions. Don’t forget, she is still my _prisoner_.”

“Noted.”

“Keep me informed.” She shot a look at Adan and glared at the Elf before turning sharply on one heel and leaving the two with the young woman.

“Do you know her name?”

“What?” Adan asked, confusion lining his face. “Of course not. What does it matter? If she wakes up, then you can ask _her_. But considering what is waiting for her…the Chantry, the people…everyone wants her head. If you ask me, she’s better off staying asleep. Forever.”

Solas scowled, looking down at the unfortunate woman caught up in this storm of his own making. He knew she was innocent, but these narrow-minded humans did not want answers: they wanted to soothe their sense of justice with blood. His jaw clenched. And why should this human woman be any different?

And why did the foci – his foci – choose her?

 

Over the next several days, he memorized her every feature, each line in her marked palm, the gentle slope of her cheekbones, and dip of her cupid’s bow, and yet he knew nothing about her. Her face was surely permanently imprinted in his mind, but he knew nothing of the soul it housed. He knew nothing, except that there were no reasons to expect she should ever awake. Well, that she was a Mage was obvious. _They collected her staff as evidence_ , he thought with bemusement. As if they could not tell apart from it. Everything about her energy suggested she was a Mage, even as she slept. But this did not bode well for her innocence with the Seeker.

Each day the warrior pressed him for answers he did not yet have. By the fourth day, the frustrated Seeker was prepared to threaten him for results. He had tried everything he could imagine. He had whispered the Old Words to which it did not respond. He had questioned spirits and demons alike. But this magic – once his magic – would no longer listen.

He resigned to leave and was gathering his things when the impossible happened.

He dashed into the command tent, ignoring the annoyed glares of the soldiers.

“Seeker!”

“Yes, Apostate, what is it?” she growled. Her eyes never left her papers.

“The prisoner … she is awake.”

 

*    *    *

 

The clatter of metal and horse hoofs combined with boisterous laughter and shouted greetings that erupted from the other side of the camp told him that their members has returned and in greater number.

 _Templars, no doubt_ , he mentally growled.

“Solas! Are you here?” Lissa’s voice called outside his door.

“Yes, Herald?” he asked, surprised to find a marching hosts of armored Templars clogging up the small pathways. He scowled.

“Listen, I know it’s what I had planned, but…” Her voice tired, weary. Dark circles sagged under her normally bright eyes, and her skin, normally plump and warm, appeared sallow and sunken. She grinned weakly. “I really wish you had been there.”

“Come inside.” It was a more of a demand than a request. He placed his hands on her shoulders and urged her to sit on the nearby cot. “What is wrong?”

“Wrong? Well, you remember that the Lord Seeker Lucius was acting unusual. It was more than nerves that unsettled my stomach. It wasn’t the Lord Seeker at all. It was a Desire demon.”  
  
“Desire? That does not bode well for the Templars. What happened?”

“It had been misleading the Templars the entire time, using its position to do terrible things to them, and to others using their power. When I went to confront him, the demon attacked me. I battled him in my mind for what felt like days, but apparently it was the space of a few minutes. The things it showed me…” She cradled her aching head with one hand.  
  
“Desire is not a demon to be taken lightly, as you know. I know why it tried to attack you. The power and influence it would have at your hand would be…”

“Yes, I know. I saw it.”

“That you forced it out speaks highly of your will, your character.” He offered her a drink which she gladly accepted. “Is that why you look so tired?”

She appeared not to know what he was talking about. “No…that was weeks ago…”

“Darkness drapes the night. She doesn’t see it, not until then. Blinding, brilliant, but broken…The night lets it shine. Wishes she could see it in the light.”

Solas whipped around to see the face that belong to the voice that had suddenly spoken. A young man with wide-brimmed hat shadowing his sunken gaze was perched on the small table.  
  
“Solas, this is Cole. He helped me in my mind against Desire. And he says the most unusual things,” she grinned.  

“Hello, Cole. Yes, a Spirit who crossed the veil and took the form of a human.”

Lissa chuckled wearily. “I should’ve known you’d need no introduction.”

“Sharper. You’re…sharper than the rest. You’re here and there. At the same time.”

“I visit the Fade regularly. Perhaps you are sensing traces of it.”

“He makes the others … uncomfortable. And they aren’t sure that he can be trusted. I’ve tried to tell them, but you know so much more of these things than I do. Perhaps you can convince them.”

“You wish for Cole to remain?”

“Cole wants to remain,” said the spirit. “Wants to help.”

“He wants to stay, Solas. And he helped me. Probably saved my life. Everyone wants to give me the credit, but it was him, shining a light the whole way. I would’ve been lost, I’m sure of it. If we could just convince a few…I think he would be safe here.”

“I will do what I can, but I cannot guarantee it will change anyone’s mind.”

“Stay away from Vivienne. You won’t be changing her mind, and I’d prefer to keep the camp from being burned down in a panicked tirade of worked up Templars fueled by her fears.”

Solas scowled. Yes, that seemed within the realm of possibilities.

“That you wish for his wellbeing and safety speaks well of you. I will do what I can. However,” he paused, taking a moment to kneel down before her. His eyes searched out her face for an answer. “You appear to be in need yourself.”

“Darkness closes in. Creeping, seeping, in the bones. Bones. Crunching. Littering. Everywhere a void.”

“I … don’t feel well, that’s true. But I don’t have much time to rest.” She forced a smile, standing up from the thin cot. “I actually came to tell you we’re heading out to talk to the Mages, and-“ The sky rumbled, and voices of alarm rose throughout Haven.  
  
“Shaking, trembling. Beating faster than it should…tied up in knots that can’t be worked out.”

Cassandra came rushing in, her hand ready at the hilt. “Change of plans. Herald, you are wanted at the war meeting. Immediately!”

Lissa nodded, an overwhelming feeling of nausea settling over her as she gripped her staff.

“What is going on?”

“You tell me.” Cassandra pointed to the sky, and overhead all was sickly green. The rift swirled and pulsed with brilliant flashes that washed out everything in its pale hue.  
  
The rift was getting bigger.

Lissa doubled over, using her staff to hold her aright.

“Swirling. Swimming. Being pulled apart. It hurts and twists. Go away, please. Just leave me alone. Don’t want you to see.”

Cassandra winced as the human mage violently vomited, holding herself up in the door frame. The warrior grunted, shaking off one boot with a look of disgust.

“I-I’m so sorry,” Lissa managed sheepishly.  
  
Solas placed one hand on her shoulder and offered her a rag. “Seeker, if the rift is growing, our time is limited. It is the Breach making your Herald ill. If it is not closed soon…”

“I understand,” Cassandra said with a surprising softness. “Come, Lissa. We will need to begin preparations for sealing the rift.”

She wiped her mouth and swallowed the acidic bile cloying to her mouth. “But the Mages…”

“We do not have time,” Solas answered sternly. “We must make do with what we have.”

Lissa looked up him apologetically. “I’m sorry. I-“

“You must go. I will begin preparing.”

Cassandra nodded, ushering the Herald out and steadying her as they left to meet with the advisors.

Cole looked at him, eyes narrowed in confusion. “Why did you stay? She wanted you to leave. You knew, but you stayed.”

“Sometimes what people want is not what they need, Cole. You would do well to learn that.”

Cole looked down at his feet as he searched for understanding. “Please don’t. Not now. Not here. Why won’t they leave? Please, Maker, let them leave.” He looked up through his disheveled blonde hair. “But…it _hurt_ her. Embarrassed.”

“Yes, sometimes it is necessary to hurt the superficial in order to protect the essential.” He bent to remove the board in the doorway, keeping the dried thresh on the dirt floor.

“…are feelings superficial?”

“What do you think?” He asked the spirit as he swept the soiled thresh outside.

Cole looked out the window, an intent gaze furrowing his brows. “Knees shaking, joints on fire. Hand splitting open, head too heavy for my bones. Skin is cold…but inside…warm. Glad. Friends helped. He helped.” He turned to Solas, a look of understanding brightening his features. “She is…happy.”

“Then you understand?”

“Yes…and no.”  
  
Solas grinned. “Good. There will be plenty of opportunities to work it out in the future. For now, we must be ready.”

“For what?”

He looked out the window at the green sky, brows furrowed with intensity. “For the end of it.”


	13. Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 100 kudos!?! It means so much to me that over 100 of you darling people liked it enough to say, "yeah, this deserves some lovin'." So thank you, from the bottom of my heart! <3 
> 
> P.S. Your comments are like icing on the cake! I know you are engaged when you comment, and it makes me want to write more, hence another chapter so soon! Y'all are the best. ^_^

Solas watched as those back at Haven began their celebrations, cheering on their Herald and patting each other on the back. _How fickle_ , he thought with amusement. _When before they were calling for her death, now they lift her up as a religious symbol._ He could not deny, though, what was wrought was a great success. The anchor had responded, and everyone involved, even the Templars, gave their all to defeat the demons the rift spewed.   
  
With more time on his side, he thought to visit the Fade and discuss with Wisdom the events that had happened here. Why would the magic not respond to him? Was he still too weak from his long sleep? Or was it tainted somehow by Corypheus?   
  
“Thank you,” a cheery voice interrupted his thoughts. Lissa stood before him with a smile. “I’m so glad you decided to come help us. I can’t believe the Breach is finally closed. Honestly, over the past few months, I felt it would never happen. Or that I might not be here to see it realized.”   
  
“I am glad my insight has been useful, though I would say this struggle, while lessened, is far from over. There are still many smaller rifts throughout Thedas and beyond that will require your particular brand.” She seemed to tire at the thought, her shoulders slumping slightly. “But the accomplishment today was a remarkable step in the right direction. You should celebrate.”   
  
“It was a victory hard-earned on all accounts. Even the Templars performed admirably, wouldn’t you agree?” she pressed carefully, measuring her tone.   
  
His brow twitched as he suppressed a scowl. “The Templars performed their duty as well as they could, yes. But that would not have changed if greater restrictions had been placed on them. To invite them in as free allies, without punishment for their failures –“   
  
“Punishment? You weren’t even _there_ , Solas! If you had been, you would have seen men and women whose faith was used against them. Men and women who possessed a weakness for power like anyone else, and you would have seen that had already paid dearly for their crimes.”   
  
“But I wasn’t there, _was I_?” he responded coolly. Lissa frowned.   
  
“You would have me engage the Mages differently? Have they not committed wrongs deserving of judgement? And what “restrictions” would you have on _them_?”

“The Mages acted out of rebellion, a rebellion that would have been unnecessary if the Templars had not abused their station.”   
  
“Ah, so their wrongdoings are excused on the basis of the abuse of those in power. If that is your reasoning, then each one of these Templars deserves the same pardon. Where was the Chantry who holds their bonds? Squabbling over the new Divine! What about the ranking leaders who abused the loyalty of those beneath them? The men and women who stood out there today are good people with good intentions who were misled by those in power. How is that any different?”

His jaw tensed as he fought back so many words. He did not want to argue with her, but how could she not see the possible problems with this arrangement?

Lissa sighed, seeing the struggle written all over this face. “Solas, you’re my friend. And I understand what you’re saying. That’s why, when this celebration is ceased, I want you to go with me when we approach the Mages. It was wrong of me to leave you here. I did you a disservice, deprived you of a chance to understand the people you are most at odds with. It was my mistake, but I want to make up for it. Would you go with me to Redcliffe, help me speak to the Mages there? I need your expertise, your experience where I would fail. I am, after all, just a simple, Circle Mage…” she added with a crooked grin.

How she stroked his ego should have annoyed him. It was an obvious ploy to gain his favor. And yet, it was with such sincerity of both expression and tone that he found he rather enjoyed the flattery. It was good to be needed again.

“I will think on it, as I consider your perspective of the alliance with Templars.”  
  
She sighed again, the tension in her shoulders melting away. “That’s all I ask. Your consideration is more than I deserve. You should know, you’re not the only one upset regarding my invitation to the Templars.”   
  
“I can hardly imagine.”   
  
She ignored his jab and continued. “Cassandra, too, believes they should be punished, and Leliana thinks I didn’t leverage the position to benefit the Inquisition. But, I guess, in a way, I think I’ve accomplished these to a greater measure than what they were envisioning. You see, they now realize their blunder, their oversight blinded by their faith. They share a measure of guilt, and yet we’ve accepted them in as free allies. Not only will this bolster their loyalty, but it gives us a leverage on their alliance. One slip, and the full force of the Inquisition’s judgement is at hand. Both points are in our favor,” she added softly, her eyes brightening keenly.

He quietly considered this. True, now the Templars would be in the debt of the Inquisition, while at the same time enjoying the freedoms of an equal alliance, which would only bolster their performance and effectiveness. But it would be no surprise where the real power was held. “It is not the end result I would have preferred, but perhaps you can make the most of it. You’ve shown a greater understanding for political scheming than I first thought, Herald.”

“Scheming sounds so negative. I simply try to adapt, make the most out of what happens, for the best of everyone.”   
  
“And you could know what is best for everyone?”

“Of course not,” she seemed tired with the thought. “But everyone expects me to…”

A silence fell between them, a calm one, and not oppressive. The two had both dropped their guard. The air was clearer, the passage between them free again.   
  
“How will you celebrate?” he asked, a grin on his face that tugged at her chest.

She chuckled, shaking her head. “If it’s alright with everyone, I think I’d prefer to take a nap.”   
  
Solas nodded. “And how are you feeling, now that the Breach has been sealed?”

“Honestly, far better than I have since this whole things started. I still feel … not like me, but like me. It’s …”   
  
“Heavy. Dragging. The bottom of the ocean, wants me to stop. The waves tug and I want to drown. I find a catch on a rock. I stop. Fixed. Underwater but breathing somehow.”   
  
Lissa gave Cole a sidelong look, careful with her response. “Hello, Cole…was there something, someone, you came to help?”   
  
“Yes,” he replied simply. “You. You struggle for words, but want to be understood. The feelings are there, just twisted with lots of other feelings. Heat, rising to my face. Stomach fluttering. Tingling down my spine…”   
  
“Cole,” she interrupted forcefully, “thank you for wanting to help, but sometimes it’s … an enjoyable challenge to sort out your own feelings. You’ll probably find most people don’t appreciate having their innermost selves revealed so…publicly.”

She carefully fought the heat down from her face, praying to the Maker that it wasn’t as obvious as it felt. “Still, you’re not wrong with what you said. I do sort of feel like … like an anchor, tied to the bottom of …something. I sometimes get the sensation that I’m in two places at once, and one place threatens to surround me, swallow me up. I think I won’t be able to breathe, and then I find I can. Is that normal?”

“As I have never had the mark, I cannot say.” Solas responded, adopting a cool expression. “But it does sound like an accurate description of being pulled between this world and the Fade.” He was not lying, entirely. He never had the mark in the way she did, but he did know what it was like to be in two places at once. That this mortal could wield and survive this…it was most unusual. Equally unusual was Cole, a spirit from the Fade with a body of his own. And both deserved a great deal more study.  
  
“You should rest,” he added, a softening to stern gaze. “After all, the Herald must be ready to address the adoring public soon, should she not?”   
  
Lissa sighed, shaking her head. “Don’t be surprised if I slip away during my nap.”   
  
Solas chuckled. “I could find you easily. Your magic is unique to this world. Still, if they come to me for help, I promise to give you a good head start.”   
  
Lissa smiled, one that reached her amber eyes. “Until later, then.”

 

 

Outside of the wooden gates of Haven, Solas prowled the snowy ground, searching for answers. With a simple thought, he allowed himself to step into the Fade, leaving a lingering portion of his consciousness tied to the waking world to alert him if something should approach him. His skin tingled, and for a moment, the waves of the Fade washed over him.   
  
_Just like Lissa mentioned_.

Now fully enveloped, he allowed his mind to expand, to take in all of the details. The Templars were now full allies with the Inquisition, and they planned to address the Mages as well. So many pieces were coming into play. How would the Mages react to being addressed after the Templars? Would they accept? If they did, how would they maintain balance in the ranks? While it was stimulating to predict and plot, it was also infuriating to be missing so much information. How had the anchor been given to her in the first place? Did Corypheus plan on this happening? What would the Magister do with his orb now?   
  
And how could he get it back?   
  
Something brushed the other part of his consciousness tied to the waking world. A shift in the magic there, sudden and flaring with energy. With a step, he passed through, and felt again the clothes on his skin, the cold, damp of the snow, the harsh sweep of winter wind rushing over his uncovered ears.

He ran. Through brush, breaking through the branches, ignoring the stings of the evergreen twigs as they scratched at his skin. His feet crunched the snow, his heart beating in his chest, the cold air burning in his lungs as he raced back to the hard packed dirt road.   
  
He was back at Haven, standing at the gate. And he was not alone.   
  
Lissa and the Commander were there, helping up another Mage, Tevinter by dress. His eyes narrowed at him suspiciously.

“I risked my life to tell you – the Mages of Redcliffe –“ the man stumbled, and Lissa and Cullen were at his side in an instant.   
  
Lissa’s face contorted with worry. “What of them? What of the Mages?”

“They’re under the service of a terrible cult, I’m afraid. The Venatori, who have pledged themselves in service to The Elder One.”   
  
“The Elder One? Who’s—“

“There’s a woman who commands them,” he stood himself aright, brushing off his clothes and standing proudly and pointed to the distance. “Her name is Calpernia. And with her…The Elder One.”   
  
Lissa followed his gaze to mountain beyond where a host of Mages and Templars poisoned with Red Lyrium were marching onto Haven. Panic welled up in her chest, her mind swirled with confusion. The Mages? Serving some Elder One and marching against them?   
  
“The Mages…” she whispered numbly, still staring at the numbers funneling towards them.   
  
“Yes, and they are on their way to attacking us. If you don’t mind, standing here dumbfounded in the open might not be the best plan,” Dorian suggested.   
  
Military tactics were something far outside of her capabilities. She looked to their Commander, her eyes imploring. “Cullen? What do we do?”

He shook his head. “Haven is no fortress. If we have any chance of getting out of this, we must control the battle.”  
  
“But it is possible. With the Templars…”   
  
He put a strong hand on her shoulder. “We will do everything we can. Soldiers!” he called out, raising his sword into the air. “Get the villagers inside! Fortify the defenses! And let’s give them hell. With the Herald!”

Lissa felt a strong twisting in her gut. They would all look to her to lead from the front, their banner, their icon. The skirmishes they’d fought and won were mere disagreements compared to the army they now faced, an army made of her brothers and sisters. What if she saw a face she recognized?   
  
Her marked hand was raised into the air and she turned, dazed, to see how it happened. Solas stood next her, stalwart and unfazed, gripping her arm firmly by the wrist and raising it in a rallying call. The troops answered, yelling with all the breath in their lungs before heading off to fulfill their duties. Her face twisted in a question, to which Solas calmly answered, “Posturing,” with a smile and offered a quick parting squeeze before he released her. “Come. There is no time.”

The next minutes – hours? – of time were difficult to tell. The passing was marked more by soldiers lost and fresh wounds rather than the passing of time. With the Maker’s mercy, she had accidentally set off a landslide, cornering off or burying a majority of the advancing mages. It was a victory assigned to her genius rather than her dumb luck. Still, she would not mock the Maker’s providence, no matter its forms. But just when they thought they might turn the tide, a ghastly dragon, impossibly controlled by The Elder One, appeared to destroy or set flames to what was left of Haven.

Solas’ kindness did not go unmissed; as they rounded each new corner, he paused to check on the injured. Lissa watched his behavior with envy. Where her fighting was heralded as bravery and heroism, the truth was much different. She fought savagely, fearfully, for her own survival. When around each bend a new threat lingered, she somehow found the strength to continue fighting predicated only on her desire to live. And yet, surrounded by the same dangers, Solas had the courage to reach beyond himself and minister to the injured.

_I want to be stronger_ , she thought, _so that I can help others_. It was no longer enough to rely on providence. The Maker gave her magic; she would be determined to master it.

Provided of course that she survived.

Somehow amidst the chaos, they had gathered most of the villagers to the Chantry. Chancellor Roderick was ushered in by Dorian, the Tevinter. She watched him curiously as through a fog. They had lost so many it had become numbing. In the back of her thoughts she could make out Cullen and Dorian discussing their position, until she heard her title.   
  
“That thing is here for you, Herald.”  
  
She narrowed her eyes as she tried to clear her thoughts. “What?”

“The Elder One. He will make no parlay. There will be no bargaining. He has come for one thing only, and that is you.”

The answer seemed simple. “He could take me, if it would save Haven.”

Dorian scoffed. “And give him that…thing he obviously wants so much? I relish the thought.”  
  
She outstretched her marked hand towards their Commander. “Then cut it off!” she begged. “Cut if off and send me to him. It could buy you time.” Her eyes welled up with tears, her emotions stretched too thin. She had already failed to save so many, watched their skin peel back from their bones as it blackened in dragon fire, listened to their wails as they burned alive as they fought unsuccessfully to free them from the rubble. She would not lose anyone else on account of her own safety.

Cullen looked at her, clearly stunned by her request.   
  
“That is out of the question,” Solas interrupted, putting his hand on her forearm. “Not only do we not know what would happen if we severed this mark from your body, but there is no guarantee it would still not be attached to your energy. It could kill you, or worse – reopen the Breach.”

Her voice was little more than a whimper. “Then what do we do?”

Dorian shrugged. “And here I thought you’d come up with something clever after that trick with the trebuchet. Too bad there aren’t any more clever ways to use them, eh?”   
  
“There may yet be…” Cullen added quietly as he paced in a heavy circle. He looked up to the Herald, a stern, determined gaze blazing under his heavy brow. “We turn the trebuchets to the mountains above us.”  
  
Lissa’s brows cinched together. “But…to hit the enemy would mean to bury Haven.”

The Commander leaned in close, his voice a sharp whisper. “This is not a battle for survival now. The only choice now is how spitefully we end this.”

“And how is this different than what I would do? Either we die now buried in a landslide or _maybe_ we die because the Herald cut off her mark. I won’t let you condemn yourself to certain death, not while I still breathe.”

“I agree!” Dorian interjected as he stood. “I didn’t risk my life to come warn you only to have you drop rocks on my head.”

Cullen gritted his teeth, a dark cloud settling over his features. “You don’t know what they’re capable of. I will _not_ let anyone be subject to their tortures.”   
  
Lissa studied his face, his craggy features cinched tightly. There was something he was not saying.   
  
“So you’d surrender yourself to immediate death? You sound like a Blood Mage!”

The croaking voice of Chancellor Roderick broke their death glares. “There is a path…a secret path, known only to those who have made the summer pilgrimage, as I have.” He coughed and sputtered, blood peppering his sleeve as he pulled it away. “She must have shown me…Andraste….we could save the people…”   
  
“Tell me everything, Roderick,” Lissa urged, kneeling next to his broken form.

He spoke of a trail, a thin, ragged thing cutting through the roughest parts of Haven, hard to see unless you’ve known it before.

_A lot like hope_ , Lissa mused.   
  
“There is a chance, Cullen…”

“Then … we’ll take it. But what of you?”

“If we’re to get everyone out alive, Cullen, I have to distract the enemy. I can lure him here long enough to bring the mountain down on him.”   
  
His eyes locked onto hers for a moment, admiration mingled with something else. “And what of you when the mountain comes crashing down?”

Lissa turned away, gathering her determination. When she returned his questioning, piercing gaze, it was with a burning determination.

Dorian raised an eyebrow at the exchange. “Perhaps we’ll surprise them afterall.”

  
Running. Her muscles burning, chest heaving, heart pounding, blood rushing as she ran. Dodging through flames and falling rafters, thwarting the advancing enemies as they swarmed all around them. A Red Templar came at her from behind, sweeping her legs out from under her in a giant sweep. She landed with a jarring thud on her back with a sickening crunch. Her vision hemmed with black, and as she struggled to fight back, she could feel the tingling of oncoming magic.

A fireball zoomed past her, singeing the wisps of hair fluttering away from her face. The Templar screamed, and suddenly she was enveloped by the most comforting of spells. Her lungs filled with fresh air and her vision cleared, her stamina rejuvenated. She turned to see Solas’ outstretched hand, his gaze intently focused on her.

They managed to set up the trebuchet. Turning, turning, turning until she thought her bones had been replaced with water.   
  
Suddenly, an ominous screech sounded overhead like a siren of death, and a shadow blotted out what little light was left.   
  
“Move! Now!” she cried, jumping down from the trebuchet and running to catch up to her comrades.

The dragon swooped down, firing off a deadly arc of flames. Something exploded, sending a thrumming through her body that shocked her to her core. She must have been in the air, for she dropped to the earth painfully before rolling uncomfortably over her shoulder. Her left ear was shrilly ringing, and she pressed a hand to silence it. Instead, she pulled away, a small trickle of blood oozing from her ear. Ignoring the fiery tearing in her shoulder, she sat up, trying to steady her dizzied mind.   
  
Just beyond, a swath of flames cut her off from her friends, and beyond, amidst the thickest fires, emerged a terrible figure, impossibly tall and unscathed by the flames wreathing its grisly outline.   
  
She rose up on wobbling knees, her hand to hear head. She turned to flee when the earth shook, the draconic pet cutting off her escape. It reared back, roaring towards the sky with a force that jarred her heart.

“Enough!” the monster commanded. That it should command such a creature sent a chill down her spine.

“You have played enough, Pretender. Surrender what belongs to me. I alone am the rightful heir.”

“I … I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

_Please, let him get closer. Just a little closer…_

“You play at glory like all mortals. But your guise is long expired. It is time to make room for an authentic god.”

“You think you are a god? Because you play with death?”

“I do not think I am a god. I know I am a god. You would seek to know my reasoning so that you could twist it to your own advantage. How mortal, to play with things you cannot understand.”

Lissa took a few steps back, closer to the trebuchet’s range. “Try me.”

“You will bow before me, mortal, for I am your new god.”

“You are a deranged madman, and I would die before I bow to you!” She spat.

“You will resist. You will always resist. But it is no matter. I am entitled to what is mine, and you cannot defeat the Elder One, the will of Corypheus.”   
  
He outstretched one hand, in it, a strange orb inlaid with designs. It crackled with energy and tugged at her mark. “I am here for the anchor. The process of removing it begins now.”

He reached out towards her, and her mark responded in agonizing pain. It tugged, scratched through her skin and flesh to claw at her very bones as he tried to tear it out of her.

“It is your own fault, ‘Herald.’ You interrupted my ritual, years in the making. Instead of dying, you stole my anchor and its purpose. But I did not craft this to make play at rifts. This is to assault the very heavens. And in your brazen mortality, thought to use it against me. The gall!”

“And what is this thing’s purpose?” she dared to ask.

He advanced and grabbed her by the wrist, dangling her before him like a plaything. “I too have breached the Fade. It was in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods _in person_. But what I found was nothing but chaos and confusion. For a thousand years, I was confused.” What little skin still covered his jaw stretched in a threatening smile. “But no more.”   
  
Her mind was consumed with her pain, his words made little sense, at least the ones that she could hold onto. His mouth continued to move, and she tried to focus on his words, but she was suddenly so very sleepy, and her head was heavier than it should be.

Suddenly, she was in the air again only to meet with a sudden, painful stop against the splintered old wood of a nearby trebuchet. She cried out in pain, another sickening crack in her side threatening to stop her from breathing. Desperate, she reached out with her only remaining good arm and picked up a fallen soldier’s sword, her staff nowhere to be seen.   
  
Still he continued to talk, and she listened as best as her clouded mind could grasp. _At least he’s still here…_

Finally, the comforting sight of a flare soared overhead.   
  
“Shut up already!” she used what strength she had remaining and used her body weight to release the trebuchet. A slow rumble began, followed by the ominous trembling of the earth.

She ran and fell, then everything went black.


	14. Reunion

The dragon swooped down, cutting them off from her.   
  
Solas stood, rushing to aid her, but the flames licked higher and Cassandra grabbed him roughly by the arm. “To go in there would be suicide!”   
  
Solas growled, yanking his arm free.   
  
“We have no other choice but to trust the Herald.” She looked over the rising flames. “Her fate is in the Maker’s hands now.”   
  
Solas clenched his jaw. He would have to do something about that once the villagers were safe. Where there was power, there was responsibility. He would not stand idle, not while his orb was hanging in the balance, his orb, and the fate of The People.   
  
“We can protect the villagers, at least. Protect them from the rear. We need to ensure that the Herald’s sacrifice is not in vain.”   
  
Varric swallowed, the sight before him a grisly one. “Hawke got out of worse. It’s unlikely, but it is possible. I’ve seen it. Don’t give up on her yet, Seeker.”   
  
They ran.   
  
They herded the panicked villagers along the hidden path that led them safely from Haven. As their small party ushered in the rear of the company, they met up with the Commander, keeping a watchful post over the inhabitants and over Haven.   
  
“This is the last of them,” Cassandra informed bluntly.   
  
“The Inquisitor?” he questioned, a weary hope still clinging to his eyes.   
  
Cassandra simply shook her head. He turned his gaze back towards their former refuge. The shrill shrieks of the dragon could still be heard, bouncing off the mountain and carried eerily on the chill wind. He prayed to the Maker it meant there was still a struggle, that she was still alive.   
  
Covering a piece of coal in an oil-dipped rag, he set it aflame, and launched it via slingshot into the air, signaling the safe exit of the villagers.   
  
Solas stood still, watching next to the Commander and Seeker, waiting for some sign that the signal had been sighted. The silence, the stillness, was unnerving, each second weighing down their hope.   
  
And then a loud rumbling began, and a wave of rock and snow started to rush down the mountain. It thundered over haven, and they waited for the stillness, the breath caught in their chest.   
  
“Do you think…?” Cassandra dared to hope.   
  
Beyond all reason, the demon dragon rose and flew away like an injured animal, its flight jerky and desperate. But it still lived.   
  
Cassandra dropped her head, whispering a silent prayer for the Herald. Cullen closed his eyes and let go of the breath tied up in his chest. They turned to follow the rest, but Solas stayed a moment longer, his gaze focused on Haven with unshakable focus.   
  
She was still alive. She had to be.   
  
The camp was ragged and the energy was near panicked. What was is that they had seen? A demon? A darkspawn? A Magister of old? Something new and worse? Already the rumors were spreading, lit by their shared terror.   
  
Advisors were arguing, the injured were moaning, and those with some semblance of strength were beginning to crumble, but held it together by shredded strands of faith for sake of the weak. Cole was gratefully active, easing their minds or helping them recall comforting memories of their past, even though they couldn’t explain why they suddenly thought it. Maybe it was the sudden whiff of crystal grace or peppermint? Mother Giselle, too, was kneeling next to the injured, offering them prayers and aid as she was able. But all in all, the hours went by too slowly for his liking. He marched over to Cassandra and the Advisors and asked coolly, “What is the plan?”   
  
“There is no plan,” Cullen remarked through gritted teeth. “As of right now, no one can agree on a course of action.”   
  
“There is no action to take!” Josephine insisted, her voice slightly ragged as she wrested with her emotions. “Everything the Inquisition stood for is gone. To rally the men after having their symbol die…”   
  
“There has been no word from my scouts. It is possible she is still alive. Maybe…”   
  
“Leliana, let us be reasonable. There is no way she survived that destruction.”   
  
“Then what do we do?” the spymaster countered. “If she is dead, then we must raise her up as a matyr not unlike Andraste herself. She sacrificed herself for the good of them all, for the cause of the Inquisition. It might be the fuel we need to keep momentum going in our favor.”   
  
Varric, who had been listening out of sight, grumbled audibly. He stomped up next to Cassandra and the brawny Templar. “You’re just writing her off? Just like that? And if she is dead, then what? Not even recognize what sort of person she was? You’ll just use her! That’s all that she’s ever got. She’s been used this whole time, and she does this sort of hero crap I’ve been warning her all about, and she just keeps getting used. I’m done here.” The dwarf stormed off to the corner of camp, settling himself down to clean up Bianca.   
  
“The dwarf has a point,” Solas insisted, trying to keep his voice as even and unbiased as possible. “There has not yet been confirmation of her death, and already you would write her off. If I have witnessed anything, it is that this mortal woman has overcome the impossible. Beyond all reason, she survived the Fade in her living form, and manages to live though some mysterious magic with power beyond her frame is tied to her. I would not discredit her yet.”  
  
“That may be true,” the ever cool Leliana replied, pulling up one knee on her perch, “but if we wait to act, we risk being seen as weak, incapable. For the sake of the Inquisition, we must decide what action to take. We need to breathe new life into it. We have to choose an Inquisitor.”   
  
The bickering started again, and Solas growled, turning his back on the arguing mortals. He climbed up the rocky mountainside until the howling of the wind drowned out their petty disagreements. There he sat, crossing his legs, and drifted into the Fade. If he could just reach out to his old magic, he would know if she still clung to life.

 

 

Swimming, swaying in the black. Her consciousness slowly roused her to waking, but when she sat up, she wished she had stayed asleep. Everything hurt, her head felt like a boulder balancing on a twig and her vision, poor as it already was, was clouded by blood in her left eye. She attempted to sit up, but a stabbing pain pressed against her side. _A broken rib, no doubt_.

Carefully, she stood, mindful of the ice-covered rock. But just as she stood, the room began to swirl, and she heaved uncontrollably. The pressure of contractions wracked her battered body, her knees shook and she knew surely she was going to die. When at last her stomach was emptied, and the dry heaves stopped because she no energy left, she felt at least a little more clarity.   
  
Slowly, she bent to retrieve her staff, covered in a dusting of snow. _How long have I been here_? Too long, she wagered. She was no longer cold.

There were demons living in the deep below Haven where she now found herself. In desperation, she reached into a place within herself she did not know existed, or perhaps she never had until cursed with the mark. It responded, calling out with the Fade and twisting the very reality to her favor. It held them fast, and gave her time to fumble past in a feeble escape.   
  
Above ground, she learned a deeper type of pain. Wind so cold, it burned her skin, chattering teeth so hard she thought they would shatter. _At least the cold numbs the rest of the pain_ , she thought drearily.

All around was howling white in the grim dark. She had no idea which way to turn. There were no footprints that would still be seen, and there were no fires she could make out. And even if they were lit, she could not see them.   
  
_Oh, Maker…_ she thought she would cry, but all tears within her were spent.   
  
Then, a welcome sound broke out over the roaring wind. The howl of a wolf lowly crooning in the night. She didn’t have to see to know it was nearby. If there was a wolf, perhaps there was a den. She forced her mind to go back to what Solas had said about wolves, but…ah! Her tired mind couldn’t put the pieces together. Shakily, she reached up to the amulet on her neck and clutched it with a prayer.   


She set out towards the sound, but Maker knows if it was the right way. The wind could be carrying it in any direction. She pressed on. Ten paces. Thirty. Not another howl sounded. She fell to her knees, and thought for a moment she might just like to sleep. It would be so easy to close her eyes, to lose herself in the soft blanket of numbing snow and just sleep herself into the arms of the Maker. Her eyelids fluttered, and another howl broke through. She turned, searching for the sound. She took five paces in another direction, then ten, and this time it was as if two wolves howled their song together.   
  
She managed this way for what felt like ages, stumbling in the dark, blind and frostbitten, walking hopefully after the sound of wolves. When the howling stopped, she changed direction, until she heard their cry again.   
  
Finally, she stumbled next to an old pile of embers. Her hand reached out. They were not covered in snow, and even her numb fingers could sense some lingering warmth.   
  
She urged herself to press on, hope rekindled. But the incline ahead was too much and she fell face-first into the cold snow.

Voices swirled and swam about. Her chest ached and she could not breathe. She was pressed against something cold and hard, and a man’s voice resonated within it. Her befuddled mind put the pieces together by using old memories. Pinned painfully against the wall, cold hard stone at her back, and unyielding metal pressing against her chest. She couldn’t breathe. A hand was on her mouth. Her mind raced, reliving old images spurned by recent hurts. Though she did not show it on the outside, her mind conjured a nightmare of old images.   
  
Cullen rushed into camp, carrying the woman against him protectively. “She is alive, but barely!”   
“Maker be praised!”   
“Thank the Maker!”   
“It’s a miracle!”

He laid her down gently on a navy bedroll, and flocks of villagers circled to gawk. They did not care that their Herald was ready to fall into death; they only saw what they needed to see. She was miraculously alive. The Commander looked down on her with wonder. He had seen soldiers, bred and trained fighters, die from less than this. That she was alive… He whispered a prayer of thanks to the Maker, but otherwise stared down at her hopelessly. “We need a healer!” he demanded.  
  
Seemingly out of nowhere, Solas appeared, urging the onlookers to scatter. “She is in great need. Seeker, if you don’t mind…”   
  
“Be my guest. If anyone can heal her...”   
  
He did not wait for further convincing. He slid down to his knees next to her, carefully placing a hand on her forehead. He saw her painful visions, felt the turmoil of her mind. He began to carefully unwind the twisted images in her head and replace them with soothing memories. He chose the ones that shone the brightest, many of them before her days in the Circle, but not all. The day she first met her beloved Mabari as a pup, the day her brother first donned the armor of the Order, when she jumped into the lake for the first time. Sifting through the myriad images, some of the memories fragmented with time, he found another bright spot. The sliver of light from the crack in the stone in her favorite corner of the tower, the way her stomach tied in knots at her first juvenile kiss, the sound of a thunderstorm on a summer day. He felt her mind relax, and he added in his own images to soothe her, visions of hills of green dotted with blooming flowers where spirits – and Mages – roamed freely, the sound of spells overlapping one another like a Great Song, and a crystal spire the glinted light like a beacon of hope for all to see.

“These clothes…they are soaked through,” Mother Giselle lamented with a sigh. “Her skin is far too cold,” her thick Orlesian accent clung to the words. “We need a fire, and fresh garments, immediately!”   
  
Cassandra set to work making the tent private while Cullen gathered firewood from around camp. Josephine slipped inside and pushed back her billowed sleeves. “What can I do, Mother Giselle?”   
  
The revered Mother carefully scooped up her limp hand, examining the digits. They were pale as starlight and hard as rock, the tips blackening from the bite of winter. “We must get her out of these chill, damp clothes and warm her immediately. Then we can see what more needs to be done.”   
  
“There is also a rather grievous injury in her shoulder. I do believe we will need a splint,” Solas added, pointing to the painful lump where bone threatened to break through skin. With nimble hands, he slipped her robe down past the shoulder, revealing the gruesome sight. Mother Giselle winced, and even Josephine turned her head as her hand leapt to her mouth. No, it had already broken through the skin.   
  
“Well, let us start with her clothes. Josephine?” Mother Giselle asked.   
  
Josephine reached out for the fastenings on her lapel, but was chastised by a sharp clearing of the Mother’s throat. Solas continued ministering his patient, intently focusing his magic to stabilize her. The woman cleared her throat again, and this time Solas looked up from his work. Mother Giselle looked at him with meaning, her brows arched accusingly.   
  
He took a moment to consider the situation and then scoffed. “Mother Giselle, I am a healer, and the only one with any remaining skill, since Adan was not counted among the survivors. I would not leave her now for anything,” his tone was genuine, focused, his eyes never leaving hers.   
  
The wise Mother measured his words carefully, and though it was against her preference, the necessity of the situation did warrant a bending of her rules. “Alright, Josephine. Carefully, now…”   
  
The two women were delicate, ginger as they peeled away the soaked clothing layer after layer, some of it stuck by ice to her hardened skin. Josephine held back a gag as she slipped off her left boot.   
  
“Oh, Andraste…” she winced, hardly stomaching the sight.   
  
Mother Giselle clucked her tongue. “She may lose that toe, yes…Is the hot water ready?” She called out beyond the tent.   
  
“Yes, it’s here, Mother,” Cullen interjected, popping into the tent, eager to feel of use in the dire situation. He paused, noting the severity of her injuries. “Maker…” It took only short moment for him to realize he could notice her injuries due to her lack of clothing, at which point his face took an adolescent shade of pink. “I-I’ll just leave this here…Cassandra!” he called out as he left the kettle hastily in entrance of the tent.   
  
Cassandra took up the job, replenishing the hot water in the basin and washing out the bloodied, soiled rags.   
  
“Gently, Lady Montilyet,” Mother Giselle encouraged as they began to gently scrub away at the gummed, old blood clinging to her wounds. With the blood and dirt rinsed from her body, they covered her core in dense furs to keep her warm. As they women carefully wrapped her extremities in the hot rags, Solas went to work on her shoulder.   
  
Anticipating the great pain setting the break would cause, he first deepened her sleep a spell. With careful, practiced hands, he set the bone back in place, a dull click twisting his stomach. With the healing herbs on hand made into a quick poultice, he splinted her arm tightly.   
  
It was at least two hours before they had completed their work, the natural medicine complete.   
  
“She is in the Maker’s hands now…” Mother Giselle commented, washing her hands in the basin. Josephine tucked a stray hair behind her ear, but it was wain, her normally coifed and mannered hair frayed from effort.   
  
“I will remain,” Solas stated. “Her energies are far too diminished to allow her body to try and heal on its own.”   
  
Mother Giselle nodded, thankful and intrigued by the Apostate’s determined aid. “Are you in need of lyrium?”   
  
“No, though I will need time to meditate to replenish my mana.”   
  
She nodded. “Understood. If you are in need of anything…”   
  
“I shall not hesitate to ask.”   
  
Cassandra remained, leaning against a support post of the tent. This Apostate whom she met with such suspicion before, who she saw as a possible threat, had become a valuable ally over the past several months. He was as stalwart as any Templar, but possessed all the cunning she expected of a Mage.   
  
“She is lucky to have you with us, Solas,” she admitted quietly. “We all are.”   
  
“It is no great sacrifice. The breach, and the wellbeing of the mark-bearer, are a great concern people of every station.”   
  
Cassandra heaved a heavy sigh. “You could just say ‘you’re welcome.’”

Solas considered this for a moment with amusement. “I didn’t realize you were saying ‘thank you.’”   
  
“I –“ she caught herself, and dropped her head for a moment. “Thank you, Solas.”   
  
He regarded her for a moment, curiously, before responding. “You are most welcome, Seeker.”

“I am certain that if she could, Lissa would offer you her thanks as well.”   
  
He looked down at his charge, her weary head resting in his hands, and a curtain of matted hair spread across his lap.   
  
“She already has.”


	15. The Dawning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Lady Lissa Trevelyan, by yours truly. ^_^

The bickering was more than he could handle. It had been two whole days after the events at Haven, and nerves were frayed. Solas held back an irritated growl in his throat. He had heard his fill of their petty arguments. After ensuring that their Herald was stable and sleeping peacefully, he rose, brusquely informing Cassandra that he was going to gather herbs – again. The impatient woman waved him off, and he fought down a sting to his pride.

_She waves me off as some vagabond Apostate with hapless knowledge of a distant world. My expertise in the Fade is only a part to be consulted for their paltry advances, whereas I am trying to shape the entirety of two worlds. If only she knew._

He climbed around the back of the scattered camp, the damp crunch of snow beneath his feet the least of his irritants. The wind whistled over his ears, tugged at his jerkin as he looked out into the deep expanse of mountains. They still had only a vague idea of their bearings, having rushed out with little forethought. But he knew where they were. And he knew their next destination: Tarasyl'an Te'las.

But how to merge these bickering children into a unified direction would be a challenge, even for one of his skill. They had been bickering about a leader, someone they could follow. It would not, could not, be him. Not only would it defeat his purpose of watching from the shadows, the unseen hand directing them, it would weaken the position of his key piece: Lissa.

He sighed. Out of all the humans he had met, she was the most unique. _Not just humans_ , he thought with sincerity. She possessed a spirit he had not seen in an age, even among The People. For a brief moment, he experienced a twinge of guilt for using such a unique spirit for his own purposes. But his own indulgence could not be permitted, for his was the greater purpose.

As the sun began to sink, it set the clouds ablaze with brilliants hues. They stood out among the grey mountains like jewels in a crown. The last vestiges of warmth slipped their fingers from his cheeks, and he set his mind on how to best position his Mage. From his perch above their makeshift refuge, he listened to the sounds of their diverse company: the pained moaning of the recovering injured, the impassioned, contrite prayers of the religious begging for their faith to be bolstered, the worried whispers of the soldiers whose stillness stagnated their faith, and the silent, helpless villagers who could do nothing but wait. His thoughts drifted to Lissa’s tent, where he had spent a majority of his time invigorating her, rejuvenating her. He had not heard her voice for three days, and it perhaps caused the greatest vacuum. It was _his_ fault that she was enduring such pain, such injury. He looked over the whole of the camp, his thoughts spreading to the extent of Thedas.

_What have I set loose?_

The press of nearby footsteps sounded nearby, their uneven gait crunching an unsteady rhythm in the snow. Unwilling to be seen, he veiled himself with his magic, slipping into the Fade and watching from the shadows. A flick of the wind kicked up a rich strand of blood red hair. His brows furrowed. What was she doing out of her tent? Did no one in their company besides him have the sense to make certain their Herald stayed in bed to rest? He was about to drop his guise, and insist she go back to the tent, but she began speaking. Curious, he continued to listen. She was not just speaking, she was praying.

“Maker, our enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against us. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me.”

 _Ah, the Chant of Light_ , he thought with an irritated curl to his lip. She had said she did not believe in Andraste, not in the way the Chantry teaches. Why then resort to petty recitations and dusty ministrations? But something caught his ears, and he listened closely. She was not just reciting; though the lines may have been memorized, he could feel the energy behind each word. This was no empty recital, no memorized script.  The sincerity in her voice was gripping, and he paused to observe her worship.

“In the long hours of the night, when hope has abandoned me,” her hand clutched to her chest, her injured arm still hanging limply from her side, “I will see the stars and know Your Light remains.” Her face upturned to the blazing sky, her lips quivering with her devotion. “Forgive me,” she wailed in contrition. “I have not the faith to endure this trial.” She dropped to her knees, and he nearly rushed to her side, but there was something in her eyes, something so sincere that he was frozen in place. “I need help. How can I be their Herald if I have not faith for myself? For their sake, Maker…”

For the next several minutes, even though her words began to stammer as she shivered from the cold, she asked for blessing on each of them. He listened more to her voice and less to her words, the graceful dips and mounds of her tone a song in its own way. But he was quickly drawn back to her words at the sound of his own name. “And Maker, for Solas. I do not know what it is He needs, but You do. I only ask that I can be a helpful instrument in his blessing. Help to me know how to help him, help them all.”

He watched intently, observed her soul laid bare and open. _Funny how pain so often leads to authenticity._ So often, humans used their faith as crutches to their greed, calling out to higher powers to bless them and fill their coffers, with an ungodly absence of thought for the souls in their sphere. In her supposed privacy, he did not witness her selfish greed or self-importance. She was genuinely humble and cared for them. Prayed for them.

 _For me_. The thought pricked his conscience, a barb in the underbelly of his steely pride.

Faint sobs broke through the night, and for a moment he felt guilty for spying on her prayers. But, he thought darkly despite his nagging guilt, perhaps he might better learn of angle to use in his advantage. It sounded so cold, even to him, but it was for a greater purpose. For all of them, even for her.

She sounded so weak and wounded as her broken frame cried unfettered from the public eye. The sound tugged on his heart. He was here to help, and yet he stood, cowardly, in the sidelines while she wept. He made up his mind. He would go to her, offer what wisdom he could, and comfort her in his own way. Just as he made to step out from his refuge within the Fade and drop his guise, her voice, clear and trembling with emotion, began singing.  
  
“ _Shadows fall_  
And hope has fled.  
Steel your heart  
The dawn will come,”

The sound of it stirred his heart, and even the spirits surrounding his mana seemed to start to mourn and hope with her.  
  
_Yes_ , he realized, sudden inspiration brightening his shadowed gaze. _This is what I needed_.

Closing his eyes and focusing on the tides of nature, he redirected the winds, let them curl around her voice in a gentle embrace, and scattered her song to the camp. Slowly, heads began to turn, looking for the hauntingly beautiful voice of hope that stirred their souls.

For his plan to work, they must continue to revere her as something beyond themselves, something with Divine appointment. _I’m sorry for this, Lissa_. He betrayed her privacy further, breaking the clouds ahead to guide a beam of brilliant sunlight, red and gold, directly overhead. At once, the camp turned, seeing their Herald on her knees, bathed in heavenly light.

With a sincere unison, the rest of them joined in, startling Lissa from her reverence.

“ _Bare your blade_  
And raise it high  
Stand your ground  
The dawn will come.”

Lissa, a confused, innocent expression on her fair, round face, slowly rose from her benediction. She paused in stunned silence, rosy lips agape at the needy faces staring up at her.

He stepped from his shelter, meeting again the hard-packed snow. He stayed far enough back to remain unseen from below but neared the human woman.

“They know what they have seen. They believe you to be something Divine. They will look to you for guidance.”

Her brows furrowed, and her chest suddenly dropped with the weight. “But … I am not any better than anyone of them. How should I know how to advise them?”

“Don’t advise them; guide them. Lead them. Be what you would wish for them.”

She turned back towards the camp, her chest rising and falling rapidly with the speed of her breath. She wrung her hands behind her back, and her knees threatened to buckle. Thankfully, Mother Giselle took the opportunity of the awestruck flock to address them with her wisdom.

“Sometimes…you are told not to be afraid. You are made to believe that faith is the absence of fear, but that is not true,” she insisted, her sincerity drawing away their attention. “It is not courage unless you are afraid, not faith unless you are tested. The Maker remembers that we are dust; do not forget that about one another. Allow yourselves to be mortal, and look to the Maker for the supplication of Divine.” Apparently satisfied, the crowd dispersed.

“She is a wise woman, and worth heeding. Her kind understand the moments that unify a cause … or would fracture it.”

Lissa suddenly fell to her knees, her mouth still agape. Solas rushed to her side, bracing her with a hand on each shoulder. She was so very different from most Elvhen women. Though her frame was small, her build was larger, wider, her shoulders taking up the expanse of his chest. She seemed to possess a certain stability or strength in her form, a sturdiness not unusual to the dog lords of her people. She was not built like the lean Elves who so often took after the reedy woods in which they made their homes. Nor was she made of temporary ideals and whims like the Orlesians, or the stony, cool stubbornness of Dwarves. She was made of stronger, warmer things like furs and woods and hearty earth. She was a Lady of Ferelden, through and through.

 “You did well, _Herald_ ,” he said with a smug grin, teasing her with her title.  

She shook her head and sighed. She turned, looking at him over her shoulder. “I did nothing, but that won’t matter to them. Now they will look to me for some sort of … _divine_ answer. And I don’t have one. I met that Corypheus up close, and I am no further to an answer than I was before. I simply have more scars to show for it.”

Her brows cinched together, wrinkling her smooth, freckled forehead. But despite the expression of worry, there was a light of determined calculation flickering in her amber eyes. It danced like a hungry flame, searching for answer.

“Scars always have something to teach us,” he added thoughtfully as he sat next to her in the snow. With a wave of his hand, he lit a nearby torch with the blue light of veilfire. The blue light dimmed the warmth of her peaches and cream skin, and he watched as the shadows bobbed sharply against the snow. “And your efforts with Corypheus did not leave us completely without knowledge. The orb he carried…it is Elvhen. A foci to be exact.”

“What? How do you know this?”

“I have seen it before, in the Fade. It was used to wield the ancient magic of my People, before Tevinter despoiled their purpose.”

“If you know this artifact is indeed Elvhen, then what purpose could he have for using it? And where would he have found it? Can we go there for clues on how to stop him?” Question upon question poured over her full lips, and he grinned. She was hungry for knowledge, and it was a trait he too shared.

“I cannot begin to guess his purpose, aside from what he said to you. Though how he plans on using the orb is also a mystery. I cannot see it fitting in with that purpose.” _And I will not see it succeed_. “Where he found it? I suppose that must remain a mystery. But perhaps there are clues you can find to help stop him before he causes the whole of world to be destroyed by his folly. There is another thing…” he paused, taking a moment to consider his words. “I fear that its origins may risk the Alliance. And I cannot allow it.”

She replied slowly, considerately. “I see. Yes, I can see why people would be quick to lend the blame to Elves, especially where magic is concerned. However, I don’t think it will be hard to maintain Corypheus as the central villain. He is, after all, the self-named new god of this world.”

“I hope it should be so. Still, I wanted you to be aware of the possibilities.”

She smiled, placing a comforting hand on his forearm. “Don’t worry, _Apostate_ ,” she emphasized with a smug grin, “I won’t let them blame you. It wouldn’t fair to attribute the shape of your ears to the shape of your character.” The thought twisted him that she should be so generous. Her statement embodied exactly the type of character this world so desperately needed, what he did not expect to find. And yet it was directed towards him, whose foolish haste put it all in motion. She released him after a parting squeeze and turned her attention back to the sky, watching as the stars began to peek out from the silky blue.

“There is a way I can help. If you are to be their leader, lead them. When Corypheus attacked, it changed the Inquisition, changed _you_.” His eyes measured the light in her eyes, watched the growing strength behind them. “Scout to the north. There is a stronghold I have seen in the Fade, a place that waits for a force to hold it, a place where the Inquisition can build, grow.” His voice was low but impassioned as he recalled the history that took place within those walls, imagined the history he would recall hundreds of years of from now.

Slowly she tore her eyes from the sky and looked at him, eyes hot with resolve. “Show me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just imagine this glorious soprano is Lissa' singing. :-)
> 
> https://youtu.be/eJfif2906Fk


	16. Thirsty

Two weeks, five days. Her nose had long since been numbed to the sour stink of human bodies and horse sweat. What fresh water they had been fortunate enough to find had to water the entire company of soldiers, vagabonds, and villagers, plus the entire stock of horses from Master Dennet. Just as they turned another rocky bend, a portion of rock jutted out, and clean, melting snow trickled down the side in a seemingly unending flow. A sudden charge of energy sparked throughout the camp at the news of fresh water.   
  
Bodies pressed around the small rock as swarms of greedy, eager hands reached out just to feel the cold wetness on their skin.

“Everyone, please!” Commander Cullen interrupted, his baritone voice carrying in the thin air of the mountains. “You will all get your turn. But the injured are tended _first_. Templars!” he barked, waiting with crossed arms as armored knight fell into an orderly line. “Make sure this stop is more orderly than the last one.” He winced, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Maker knows we don’t need any more brawls.” His warm eyes scanned the villagers and soldiers, watching for any sign of disorganization in the ranks. His eyes met hers and she quickly turned her eyes to the trickling water. _Had I been staring? Oh dear, how rude._  
  
Eager villagers and soldiers alike waited, gathered in tight knit groups. Only the encircling Templars kept the press from overtaking the injured. Ser Barris, donned in his heavy armor, knelt easily next to some of the needy, carefully drawing a pouch of water to their parched lips. She smiled. It was comforting to know that despite the Conclave disaster, there were still good men and women on both sides. Perhaps, she thought, there was still a chance at reconciliation.

Master Dennet and his charges followed next, despite grumblings of those who waited. Commander Cullen, more irritable than usual, did not have any patience for their whining. “The horses will be watered. And you will _wait_ for your turn in grateful silence, or you forfeit. Is that understood?” he growled.   
  
There was a sag to his broad shoulders and an ever-darkening crescent beneath his eyes. And though he tried to distract from his weariness with forceful orders and stiffly crossing his arms, she still noticed the slightest tremor in his fingertips. Were the nearby rifts plaguing him at night, affecting him somehow, or was something else at work?

Nearby villagers murmured and grumbled at his gruffness. The slightest curl of his lip revealed a hint of teeth as if the scar had gently pulled back his upper lip. His rough fingers tensed, gripping his arm, kneading the thick velvet of his cloak beneath his palms. Energy, tense and hot, rolled off him like a wave. He needed an intervention and soon.

  
Lissa slipped next to him, cautiously daring to add to his outburst. “There is plenty of water, and we can always wait for the snow to melt,” she said with a gentle smile, hoping to gain their attention and affection. Once she felt their eyes look on her, as they so often had these past few weeks, she mentally stepped into her new role. It was still uncomfortable and rough, like wearing a burlap robe. But it fit. She still could not wait to take it off.

“It’s very important that the horses are watered,” She insisted, her voice having found more of its confidence the past several weeks of being the figure head of their journey. “The Commander knows these things like second nature, and we are wasting his time by having to explain his reasoning.”

“But we’re _people_ , Herald!” one man with grimy hair clinging to his blocked chin. His thick brows knit together in passionate concern. “Aren’t you here because you care about us?”

Suddenly, all the mouths that had been complaining about their Commander had shut and were replaced with a pair of worried, tired eyes staring at her. She let out a hint of a sigh. _I’m here because I have two parents._ Their gazes, glassy-eyed and tired, fixed on her with dependence. The burlap robes turned to stone, weighing her down with implied responsibility. With her silence, the people filled the gaps with their own grumblings.

“The horses get to drink?”

“My children!”

“Doesn’t the Maker care?”

“The Commander doesn’t care!”

She felt her face cinch into a scowl and she shook her head. These people were being absurd! Surely it was just the fatigue, hunger, and apparently common-sense-draining thirst from which they were all suffering, but everyone was suffering equally, including their Commander. And he still had responsibilities to meet.

She had enough.

“Fine,” she said evenly, addressing the man who started it. Confused, the murmuring crowd turned to each other dumbly, trying to determine her meaning.

“E-excuse me, Herald?” the man dared to ask, shouldering through the crowd to the front. “Are you saying we can have water now?”

A stillness settled over the camp as Templars and soldiers paused from their work. Only the faint whistle of wind and the trickle of the mountain stream filled the space. She felt the attention slowly focus on her, and she wondered if she sink under the weight of it all.

The crunch of boots approached her. “Now wait just a minute, Herald,” Master Dennet began to protest bluntly. “You can’t just –“

She inhaled sharply through her nose and drew on the little fire burning inside of her. She held up a hand, commanding his silence without so much as acknowledging him with a glance. A few short gasps eeked from the crowd, breaking the fragile silence. It was unusually sharp for her, she knew. The burn grew and gave her courage. This had to be done.

She turned to meet Master Dennet, meeting his offended and confused expression with a look of intent. “This man wants to drink in a horse’s stead.” She raised her brows, tilting her head with purpose. “Please, _allow_ him.”

No doubt confused, Master Dennet narrowed his eyes on her. Whether he had an inclination or was simply curious of her intentions, she did not know. But he did slowly pull away with a curt nod, his gaze lingering over his shoulder as he returned to the mounts.

Lissa turned back to the crowd and singled out the man with a gesture. “You, sir. Your name, please?”

“Dilford, My Lady Herald,” he cleared his throat, speaking up more clearly. “Renned Dilford.”

The sting of the title had grown dull with overuse, and now she hardly noticed.

“Renned, please defend why you should drink before the horses, if you wish to exchange places.”

Whispers of uncertainty filled the silence, the charged gossip sparking between the numbers of villagers and soldiers like chain lightning.

Renned’s brows slowly pinched together, and he studied her sideways, hesitating. Despite his silence, she could see thinking going on behind his dark brown eyes. Finally, he straightened, apparently satisfied with a conclusion. He lifted his head proudly and nearly crowed his answer.

“Well … I’m a person. We’re all people. We have children, and families! Horses are great, but _people_ are more important.”

Lissa waited, watching the expression of those around her shift. “Alright. You’ve made your case. All I ask is that you live out your conviction. Master Dennet?” she called out, crossing her arms across her chest, “have you selected a mount whose place Renned shall take to drink?”

“I have indeed, Herald,” he replied with a stiff, knowing grin. _Good, he’d caught on_. By now her little charade had gathered quite the crowd. And standing above most of them were the stalwart warriors, Cassandra and their Commander himself. His eyes swept over the crowd, hunting for anything out of line. His patience was indeed thin today.

The clacking of horse hooves neared her and she turned to pat the warm haunch of a sturdy mare. She rubbed her hands along her neck, gently combing the coat down towards her burdened back.

“Come on, Renned,” Master Dennet barked, “You’ll switch with Wynett, here.”

The mare chuffed, velvet lips flaring with an agitated snuff while she pawed at the hard packed ground with her front hoof.

With unsure steps, Renned approached the mountain stream. Finally, he brought his lips to the cold water. He gulped it down, water running down the corners of his lips as he gorged on the fresh water.

Suddenly, he grunted, spewing water down his tunic. “What’s the matt-“

Master Dennet yanked once more, drawing the leather strap of a saddle around his midsection.

“What’s going on?” Renned snapped, immediately fumbling with the strap. His back bent beneath the weight and his face reddened with embarrassment.

“You said you’d trade with one of the horses,” Master Dennet pointed out with typical Ferelden tact. “Now you get her share of the load.”

Renned’s dark eyes widened as a few soldiers began approaching him packs from the mare’s load. Slack jawed, he stepped backward, stumbling under the unusual weight. He flailed like an overturned tortoise, desperately trying to right himself. Finally, he managed to release the strap and wriggled free of his burden.

Lissa immediately turned to the watchful gaze of the impatient villagers. “These horses carry our livelihoods, your possessions, and food. Without them, you would not be able to make this journey. If they don’t drink, you have to carry everything until we reach our destination. And I, for one, thank the Commander for ensuring we don’t have to be burdened with all of the supplies.” Her eyes were drawn across the crowd. They met the warm eyes of Cullen, staring back at her with a stunned silence. But then his brows softened, and his scared lip pulled into a lopsided grin. “So,” she drawled, dragging her eyes away from his honeyed gaze, “you may now drink, if you agree to exchange places with one of the horses. The choice is yours.”

The clamber of work resumed, her drama concluded. She took a deep breath pushed between the crowds back towards her tent. As soon as the flap slipped behind her, she indulged herself with a heavy sigh, letting the full weight of her responsibility slide off her shoulders. Time to herself was scarce, but once and while she found it necessary to make time. Reaching behind her neck, she pulled around her thick braid and nimbly began separating the plaits. The routine was simple, but soothing and kept her hands occupied while her mind untangled the thoughts of the day.

“Herald?” a voice man’s questioned outside of the tent flap.

 _Oh, Andraste’s knickers…_ she muttered mentally in a rare curse as she abandoned her work. “Yes?”

A broad hand slipped inside and slid down the rough fabric, pushing open the entrance. The wide, fur covered shoulders of Commander Cullen peeked through as he ducked his curly blonde head inside.

“Oh! Commander,” she greeted, sitting up straighter and quickly combing through her untidied hair. “I didn’t realize it was you. What can I do for you?”

He hovered in the entry, the sunlight gilding his hair with gold and washing over his shoulders with a warm light. He watched her for a moment, silently, until he cleared his throat. “I … wanted to thank you. For what you did back there.”

“It was nothing at all, Cullen,” she grinned. “Honestly, I think the last stop for water irritated me as much as you. We’re still at least a few days out, and I don’t think my sanity could deal with another episode like that.”

“I can agree to that! I doubt I’ll be found complaining about a nice downpour when we’re out of these mountains,” he shook his head, a crooked grin tugging at his lip. Lissa chuckled, glad to see that he nodded in amused agreement.

She paused, drinking in a careful breath before asking. “Are you okay, Commander?”

His brows raised, and he straightened suddenly, his voice more even and not as easy as it had been a moment ago. “Why do you ask?”

“You seem … to be more tired than usual. I’m not trying to be nosey, but I have noticed you’re a bit more irritable than normal.”

He grimaced. “You’re not the only one,” he growled. “Cassandra won’t leave me be.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, it’s just … I was concerned.” Oh blast, she’d been meddling. She had only been worried for him and wanted to help.

“No, it’s … alright. I’ll be fine once I can get a little rest. I’ll try not to burden you with my … _irritability_ until then.”

She felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment from his teasing and her fingers longed to twist within her hair. “Yes, well … that’s good to hear.”

“Until later, Herald.” She must have grimaced at the name, for his brows cinched together, and he awkwardly corrected himself. “I mean … Lissa.” With a parting, crooked grin, he bowed his head and slipped out of the tent.

How odd. She hardly seemed to notice her title with everyone else, but coming from him, it just seemed so _uncomfortable_. With the solace of the tent to herself, she resumed her ritual, fingers weaving and unravelling her braids as her mind untangled the rest of the day.


	17. A New Title

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all are so sweet! I find myself so surprised that you actually *enjoy* my self-indulgent Solas-candy. Mhmmm....*cough* With your kind words bolstering my confidence, I've shared this on tumblr as well! If you'd like, we can connect there, too! Thank you ALL for being so awesome! 
> 
> http://asthedaydiesfanfic.tumblr.com

Skyhold was more impressive than she imagined. Set it in the mountains, the large fortress was grand, lordly in its size and build. Even her richest uncle’s estate was not half as impressive, despite her gilded childhood memories. Though many bemoaned its state of disrepair, Lissa found it enchanting. Dust draped over nearly every surface. The cracks let in shrill whispers of wind. What stories did they carry? How many years old was it? Cobwebs twisted over older cobwebs, making eerie and ancient patterns in the corner when the light hit them. What had the spiders witnessed all alone, hiding in the corners all these long years? There were stories hidden in this dust, and her mind raced with the possibilities.

It had been a long time since she’d had the freedom to let her imagination run wild. In the Circle, daydreaming was punishable – if you were caught. After all, a wandering mind is not a vigilant mind. Even as the words rehearsed in her mind, she heard them in the authoritative timbre of Captain Rylan’s voice reciting it with conviction. And though the Rebellion “freed” the Mages, her mind had been too heavy with the weight of the next official task, then the next, or the worry of pursuit to engage in frivolous thought. But this place _invited_ it, inspired it with its age. Its dusty allure was too much, and her mind was swept away, her feet following after it.  
  
As she wandered, she found herself in an abandoned tower towards the rear of the hold. The sunlight beamed from the top. She held up a hand to watch as the sunlight streamed between her fingers, squinting as she examined this new place. It seemed to be several stories in height. The cold, old stone rose up and up, stopped by a few landing on the way. The stairway seemed to have crumbled beyond use, if that was ever a stairway to begin with. In the corner, forgotten and abandoned, rested a ladder that would span the distance of at least two stories. She bit her lip as she concentrated, preparing herself for the task at hand. She would have to climb.

She gripped the ladder, dust and dirt gritty under her palms, and with a huff of effort, hoisted it from its resting place. Cobwebs pulled away like pining lovers hands as she staggered with the impossibly heavy ladder.

 _“Did not…look so…heavy!”_ Even her thoughts were strained with the effort. Finally, one foot after the other, she made near enough to the landing to drop ladder in place. It settled with a clatter, resting against the upper floor as dust and dirt rained down. Her throat tickled as the dust scratched its way down to her lungs. She choked and coughed, waving in front of her face with a scowl. Once the air had stilled a bit, she stood back to admire her handiwork.  
  
The ladder seemed secure and strangely inviting as it stretched overhead. She eyes travelled up each rung until her eyes met the sun. This new path led to unexplained paths no one in Skyhold had yet searched. What would she find?

Overcoming her discomfort with heights, she dared to put a foot on the first rung. A disconcerting creak shuddered the entire ladder, and she braced herself with a stopped breath, clinging to the ladder though she had not yet left the ground. Her face felt hot with her foolishness, and she was glad only the dust had been witness. Curiosity strengthening her courage, she looked up into the unknown and, with clenched jaw and matching tightness behind her navel, slowly added her other foot. Thankfully, it held. The breath locked in lungs finally released, and began the climb. Hand over hand, slowly, listening to each creak and carefully feeling each rung for stability.

 _“This might be the most foolish and amazing thing you’ve done,”_ she cajoled herself. She cleared the first landing and peered out across the stony flooring. There were blurry lumps of …something in the corner. She leaned, squinting as she tried to make it out. But as it appeared to be nothing of severe importance, she pressed upward.  
  
  
Just as she was about to crest the final landing, the rung beneath her right foot split with a sudden crack. She scrambled for balance, teetering dangerously on the ladder like some Orlesian court performer. She struggled, every muscle in her body engaged in keeping herself aright. The sudden sensation of falling drew on her instinct, and she called upon the magic around her. A branch of ice connected the ladder to the stony lip of the landing, stabilizing her long enough to make a desperate jump to the dusty stone floor. Scrambling over the edge, she paused a moment, sprawled out on the dusty ground just thankful to be someplace solid. The sound of the ladder clattering against the far wall resounded and she sighed, her breath clearing a spot in the dust. _Great_. With care, she shimmied to the edge, peering over it carefully. The ladder was completely out of reach, and with the stairs crumbled, she had no way down.

She looked down to the floor until the walls seem to swim around her as the strange sensation of falling began to creep in her gut. With determination, she focused solely on the floor. _Cold stone. Solid. Right beneath me. Not moving. Not falling. Breathe._

Eventually she crawled to the back wall, and leaned against the hard wall. Well, she wasn’t in an entirely hopeless position. At least she was no longer in danger of dying. But there was still another floor above her before she reached the open air and sunshine, and below was a treacherous fall. She was caught in between, and had no options for getting to either place.

 _How fitting_ , she mused darkly, _for one in my position_. She was caught in the middle of being a Mage and being the Herald, but never seemingly able to just be Lissa. For it seems, like now, the way out was to choose between them. But should she try to find some way to climb down or up? Just the thought of having to look down into the seemingly dark, endless chasm below her sent her mind to swirling. Her palms checks the floor to make sure it was still solid.

 _Up it is, then_.

She stood, but her knees still felt like water. _Or…I could just sit here. Stupidly_. Shakily, she knelt back down the stone, cursing her stupidity and curiosity for pinning her here like a helpless child.

“So dark and deep. Would swallow and bite you.”

Cole!

“Oh, Cole, I’ve never been so glad to see you.”

He peered at her – no, through her – from behind his long blonde hair. “You want help. But … you also _don’t_.” The poor young man seemed so confused, she pitied him with adoration. “I don’t understand.”

She chuckled, glad that he in his odd way had already helped her a great deal. “Well, of course I want help. If I don’t get help, I’ll be stuck in this tower.” She sighed, leaning her head against the cold rock wall. “But if I get help, I’ll have to feel silly. And my friends might think I’m silly. I don’t want them to think I’m …childish.”

“You … want down, but don’t want to be embarrassed.” He said slowly, but brightened at the end.

She grinned. “Yes, that’s it. I don’t suppose you can help with—“  
  
Before she could finish, the odd spirit was gone. She shook her head and chuckled in the back of her throat. Who knows what he would come up with? Whatever it was, she hoped it was soon.

 

*   *   *

She had her fill of daydreaming. Staring at the blank, stony walls was oddly familiar to her days in the Circle. As her mind wandered to what it would be like to not be a Mage, to not have been caught up in this Herald business, reality would suddenly come snapping back into focus. She half expected a Templar or one of her teachers to scold her about her wandering mind. But it wasn’t the demons from which her teachers had been protecting her.

It was _herself_.

Her own dangerous thoughts threatened to swallow her, eat her from the inside out. Mage. Circle. Herald. Skyhold.

 _Trapped_.

She wanted everything she could never have. Her own life, a family. She never got to live with hers, and she would never have one of her own. She missed the smell of the barns as she waited for her older brother to return home, the taste of her mother’s roasted druffalo and cream sauce. How strong her father’s arms felt around her when he picked her up and spun her around on her birthday. She had missed _so much_ her chest ached at the thought of it. What did she have to look forward to but a different sort of prison with another set of titles?

She took a deep breath and prayed for a storm, a storm big enough to blow away the rift, to wash away her title and leave just her, Lissa Trevelyan standing in awe and wonder.

A storm to make her _free_.

As if by her call, a strange gust swirled around her, gently pushing the dust across the floor in a cloudy heaps. The skin on the back of her neck prickled, and energy tingled at the tips of her fingers, heralding the oncoming crack of lightning.

“It seems you need help freeing yourself, Herald,” a smooth, scholarly tone interrupted.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I have ways of knowing a great many things,” he said smugly, his arms folded at the small of his back. He looked down his thin nose at her, a crooked grin on his full lips. “It also helps when certain spirits tell you when aid is required.”

She nodded slowly, a reluctant grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Cole.”

“Yes, Cole.”  
  
“How did you manage to get here?”  
  
“A simple task, but not easily mastered. I used the Fade to shape the reality around me, and simply step into it. Most Circle Mages never even have the chance to learn the technique, as it touches the realm of spirits and demons too closely for their superstitions.” His nose wrinkled slightly, his brows arching in that particular way he got when he started lecturing unintentionally. “And those Dalish that attempt it have such closed minds to what is possible, few have achieved it. It does not surprise me you’ve not seen it before.”

She did not bother to hold back her grin or attempt to dull the amusement she felt brightening her eyes. She bit her lower lip to keep from giggling. Sometimes he was just so funny.

He noticed and scowled. “You find me amusing?”

“Yes, in fact, I do.” She stood, brushing off her robes and patting away the clinging dust. “I’m not prophetic, but I could have guessed at what you were going to say before you said it.”

“I doubt it.”

“Suit yourself,” she said with a cocky grin, more coy than she usually allowed herself to be. “So, _learned master Apostate_ , do tell me how I shall enact my rescue with this fantastic technique of yours?” She rubbed her palms together, creating a spark of electricity to jump between her hands.

He scowled, but she noticed the corner of his mouth fighting a grin. He crossed his arms, and shook his head. “It is not something I could show you safely here. One misstep, and you’ll find yourself exiting in the center of that ravine several meters high. No, I will escort you through the technique. If you wish to learn it later, I can teach you.”

Genuine interest lit a spark in her curious mind. “Oh, I’d very much like to learn it. How does it work?”

He grinned, looking down on her in an approving manner. “Come, I will show you.”

Eagerly, she stepped next to him, waiting for the enactment of the spell. The sudden tingle of waking magic began to swirl its energies around her. Even the air she breathed felt more energized, every inch of her skin keenly aware of his magic surrounding them. It was strangely intimate, but also very beautiful. His magic was so effortless and responsive. So _free_.

Suddenly, his arms were around her, his right arm around her waist, and the other holding her marked left hand. Curse the heat that rose to her face! His voice was barely a whisper, but she could feel the warmth of his breath against the back of her neck as he spoke.  
  
“ _Hold on_.”

With a tight swallow, she nodded. The magic around her suddenly surged with energy and excitement. Its magnetic pull drew her to it, and he guided her with a gentle nudge. In their unusual dance, they stepped forward together, being drawn into the energy.

As she placed her foot down, she was met with the damp press of wet earth meeting her boot. The bustle of soldiers and workers carrying supplies, the clamoring sounds of hammer answer hammer were carried on a cool, humid wind. They were in the courtyard.

“That was amazing,” she said breathless, stepping away from his hold in disbelief. How was this possible? She turned, taking in the full atmosphere, letting the new air fill her lungs until her diaphragm stretched to its limits. She rushed back to him, and clutch his hands in excitement. “You must teach me this! It was so incredible. The way you call on magic …” her eyes narrowed on him in wonder. “I can’t believe I’ve never known this in the Circle. It’s like breaking the surface of the ocean to finally get air! Please, will you teach me?” She pleaded, still clutching his slender, rough hands in hers.

He regarded her for a moment with a kind gaze, but his eyes held something else, too. Amusement? How silly she must seem to someone with the sort of wisdom he had. But her pride be damned. This use of magic was something she simply _must_ know. She held his gaze, mentally pleading with him for this _one_ thing. _Please teach me your magic!_

Finally, he nodded, a gentle grin drawing his freckle-dusted cheeks towards his eyes. “Of course.” Her shoulders sloped in relief, and she squeezed his hands in thanks.

“Herald! There you are,” the exasperated voice of Cassandra called out. “We’ve been looking all over for you.” She crossed her arms, looking at the pair of Mages with an irritated arch to one brow. Taking up the rear a few feet behind her were Commander Cullen and Josephine, each staring at her with …unusual expression. _What are they up to?_

Cassandra sighed. “I should have known you would be doing something – anything – involving magic.  
 She spared a glance in the Apostate’s direction, and Solas merely nodded in acknowledgement. The Seeker grunted and shook her head, turning her attention back to Lissa. “Come, I have something to discuss with you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered before releasing him and quickly catching up to the Seeker as she made her way toward the main hall.  
  
  
“You know, we have been considering what to do for the Inquisition. This place…” she paused as she took a few steps up the stairs to look down on another group of refugees entering the wide gates. “More people come here every day. It has become a sort of pilgrimage. It is seen as a place of hope.” Wide, hungry eyes stared at her in a strange approval. Lissa had a gnawing feeling swirling in her gut that they had another to-do list for her. Would they have her stand in line, allowing these pilgrims to shake their beloved Herald’s hand, or be blessed by some touch of hers? She shivered. It did seem to be within the realm of possibilities.  


“We need a leader,” Cassandra insisted, resuming her purposeful steps toward the main hall. As they crested the first rise, they were met by Leliana, her arms weighed down by a heavy load.

A sword? She wondered. Leliana was more adept at stealth, though it would not surprise her in the least if had actually been her own weapon. She was certain the woman could make an innocent hairpin deadly if needed.

Cassandra slowed, looking at her sidelong, one thin brow arched and her lips quirked in a crooked grin. “We need someone who has already been leading us.”  
  
Oh, no. She should have seen it coming. The wanting look on Cassandra’s face, the restrained giddy look on Josephine… Leliana stepped forward offering her the sword. She felt her chest sink.  
  
“You _can’t_ have all agreed to this…” she replied, more of an accusation than an actual question.

Cassandra responded too politically, too vague. “They will follow.”

Lissa shook her head, noticing the gathering crowd of hopeful eyes staring up at her from below. Through gritted teeth, she responded sharply, “That is _not_ what I asked.”

How _could_ they? Ask her to throw her life deeper into their necessity without so much as giving her the chance of a private consideration? They ask her, here, after luring her in front of all the people who wanted, _needed_ someone bigger than themselves to clean up their mess.  
  
She wanted to run.

This was madness, absolute madness! She was a Mage of the Circle. What was she to know of justice, or war, or politics? Her entire life was made of stone walls and lectures and pieced-together scraps of daydreams. These things did not make a leader or even a figurehead.

“Cassandra,” she whispered, carefully angling her back to the masses. “This…you don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Yes, we do,” Leliana said in her simply, meaningful way. “And we believe that you can do it.”

“It’s not the possibility. It’s the _quality_ that concerns me. Why not Cullen? Why not Cassandra? Why not _anyone_ besides me?”  
  
Cassandra and Leliana shared a concerned glance. How could they expect her to be something bigger than herself? What they wanted … she was not it. She had never even lived yet as just a woman, how could she lead so many men? How could she be the voice responsible for everyone?

_How could I direct their lives when I have not yet lived?_

“That you are concerned so deeply tells me that you would be a good Inquisitor. If you thought you were suited for the role, I would be worried,” Cassandra encouraged with a pat on her shoulder.

“You would be operating in similar fashion to what you are doing now,” Leliana insisted gently. “I, Cullen, and Josephine would continue to offer our expertise on matters. You would simply be the final voice.”

Lissa looked down at the sword resting in her upturned palms. “So when things went wrong it would be my neck in the noose…”

 _Wonderful_.

She sighed. “You enacted the Inquisition to end the Templar and Mage war, yes?” she asked Cassandra evenly, her mind considering the options.

“That is true. The mission of the Inquisition is now to stop Corypheus and end the infighting. That is what I believe the Divine would have wanted.”

“Then … once that is accomplished, there is no more need for the Inquisition.”

Cassandra answered slowly. Too slowly for her liking. “It would be best if the Chantry would start to clean up their own mess eventually, yes.”

She sighed, looking at the bright, shining dragon as it swirled and coiled around the hilt intricately. It looked heavy.

 _Fitting_ , she thought, _for so weighty a role_.

She looked out over the eager crowd and slowly scanned each one. Each represented a soul with individual desires as unique as her own, different needs and personalities. Could they really trust her with the overarching decisions that would influence their lives? They looked up at her with bright, naïve hope, each glance a rope that tied her down. Cullen and Josephine looked at her with confidence and anticipation. After all, it had been at least partly their decision.

But lingering at the rear, hedging the group from afar stood Solas, narrowing his on her with a predacious gaze. He seemed to understand the undercurrents of their distant discussion. His eyes held hers intently, and he nodded his head slowly in confirmation.

He thought she could do this?

 No, of course. He always did. From the beginning he encouraged her to embrace their ideals and use them to her advantage. His advice was invaluable and proved successful time after time. And with this new position, she might be able to help so many more people.

 _Only in exchange for myself…_  
  
Over and over in the back of her mind, all she could hear was the dry, insistent statements of Chantry sisters. “The Maker made magic for man.”

And so, of course, He made Mages for them, too.

Never before had so many things been so stacked against her will, so in opposition to her own desires. But perhaps that was the Circle was for, to prepare her for a life of living behind political walls, hedged in by Advisors instead of Templars.  
  
Perhaps, after all, she was meant for it.

She pressed her eyes closed, uttering a mental prayer for strength. With a slow but deliberate gesture, she reached out, wrapping her slender fingers around the hard hilt. She looked it over with long glance, considering the ramifications of this simple gesture.  

Cassandra called out loudly next to her, her voice echoing across the stone courtyard. “Have our people been told?”

Josephine’s bright timbre rose clearly above the tight stillness. “They have! And soon - the _world_.”

Cullen pushed to the front, his stance widening as he raised his arms, his booming voice inciting the soldiers to a frenzy. “Inquisition! Will you follow?” The sense of command in his voice raised goosebumps along the back of her neck. The crowd roared, arms raised in agreement. “Will you fight?” he demanded an answer. “Will we triumph?”

With each question, even she felt a growing fire of inspiration begin to burn inside of her. The man was a master.

“Your leader! Your Herald! Your Inquisitor!” He raised his sword, turning and meeting her with his warm brown eyes bright with intensity, rimmed with the passion of victory. It strummed something inside of her, and she answered in turn with a raise of the sword.

The next few moments were a blur, being swept away by Cassandra and their – _her_ – advisors. Discussions, theories, orders, and suggestions filled the space until she slipped away for a quick, uneventful evening meal. When at last she laid her head down (in her very own spacious quarters), she did not feel at home. She missed the warmth of a body next to her, even if it belonged to Cassandra’s snoring form. The close press of the tent, the nearness of the night. Everything felt so far away, and only her worried thoughts were left to comfort her.

Her mind would not be silent. What would be expected of her? What was this talk about training? Why was Orlesian flour versus Redcliff wheat even an issue? Who was this mystery friend of Varric’s? And how was she supposed to handle it all? Without the nearby lull of crickets or the rasping sound of her comrade’s breathing to blanket her thoughts, she swung her bare feet over the bed (an actual, honest bed, not some thin strip of cotton) and stepped onto the plush rug beneath her.

She let her mind shift to focus on what it felt like beneath her feet as she wriggled her toes in long fur rug. As she crossed the room, her feet finally pressed against the cold stone and a chill shot up her spine. With shiver, she pulled her shift closer across her chest and carefully made her way in the dark, using her mark as a torch to light the way.

Once in the great hall, she made her way carefully. Her sight was poor already, but at night, it was nearly impossible to see anything at all. Thankfully, the broken windows let in a shock of moonlight. The stream of silver beamed down on an intimidating chair poised in the center of the hall like a throne. She found the idea unsettling.

Carefully feeling out the path before her with her feet, she made her way around crumbled, toppled rock, tattered drapes, and fallen beams.

She looked up and down the hall, wondering which door she would choose this night. Truthfully, she had little idea where any of them led. Her explorations drew her away from the large central structure and out towards the edge of the keep, hunting for secret hideaways far from the immediate attention of soldiers. But now, when they all slept, she could explore the inside of Skyhold in peace. She chose a door and pushed through.

A pair of torches flickered on the wall, casting dancing shadows around the rotunda. Several stories rose above it, and somewhere above the shuffle of birdwings drifted down. A thick, wide oaken table was set up in the middle as a makeshift desk, and a large chair dressed in a rich brocade rested behind it. A few loose pages lay scattered across the surface, weighted down by a rather tempting pile of thick books.

She grabbed a torch as curiosity drew her feet to the center of the room, and hungry fingers reached for the novels. Tenderly, she stroked the spine, bringing the light closer as she underscored the title. “On Tevinter: The Rise, Fall, and Success of Magic,” she read through squinted eyes.

_Interesting!_

The pile contained an eclectic assortment of topics from Orlesian political etiquette, Ferelden heraldry, several treatises on demons, and even “A Compilation of the Chantry Requirements for Servants of the Circle.” She grimaced. Well, _almost_ all of them interesting.

As she turned, she was met by the most beautiful sight. A little gasp slipped from her lips and echoed up the tower. Spanning the wall was spread the most brilliant mural. The symbolic eye, looking down from above, wolves howling on either side, and in the center, a sword. Rich earth tones and warm reds were set off in the firelight. The warm light flashed off little details gilded in gold leafing. She neared the wall, narrowing her eyes to study it in more detail. With her nose nearly pressed to the fresco, she noted the deliberate brushstrokes, soaked in the full vibrancy of the color.  
  
“I hope you don’t mind.”

She jumped with a start, dropping the torch to the stone floor. Crows above scolded her with agitated caws and a ruffled flap of wings.

Solas approached and bent to pick up the extinguished torch. With a smooth gesture, he brought the flames licking back to life. The firelight cast harsh shadows along the angles of his cheekbones, his chin and neck. His eyes bounced back the flame, and suddenly, there was something so otherworldly about him, etheric and deadly and swathed in dark save for the small torch.  
  
“You … you did this?” she asked, slowly tearing her eyes away from his. She looked over the mural with genuine awe, her lips parted in wonder. “It’s amazing. I never knew that stone walls could be so … so beautiful.”

“Then I will continue. It is an ancient Elvhen technique I’ve witnessed in the Fade.”  
  
“Elvhen?” She regarded the art curiously. “What was the significance of it? Where would find something like this? Was it a common art form, or was it reserved for special occasions?”

He grinned in approval, but it was less comforting in the odd torchlight. “All excellent questions. But perhaps they should be saved for your first lesson.”

“You’re really going to teach me?” she asked more loudly than she intended.

“I am. And since you have a very busy day ahead of you, _Inquisitor,_ I suggest you get some sleep. I expect my student to have an alert, attentive mind.”

The thought of being his student, of learning things she had before been denied, of witnessing ancient magic through the Fade sent a shock through her core. But she was definitely not excited that this curious, handsome Apostate would be working with her, _just_ her. And she was also not at all thrilled with the possibility and challenge of impressing _him_ for once. She shook her head, a little cluck of a chuckle resounding in the back of her throat. “I’ll do my best.”

He handed her the torch and raised his brows the way he did when he knew something she did not (which was often). “I think you’ll find you sleep well tonight. I will see you tomorrow, Inquisitor.” She felt his eyes watch her as left, and when she turned to bid him a parting farewell, he was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. If you have something you'd really like to see, please post it in the comments! I can't guarantee I will write every single suggestion, but you never know if yours will the start of the next chapter! <333


	18. Free Falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I honestly don’t know how I’m going to manage!” she moaned, her chest sinking in a great sigh. Her hands gripped the rough wooden cup tightly, half to anchor herself to the present, and half not to throw it across the room in frustration. Her jaw tensed, and a slow throb began to build behind her eyes. “Every cursed little thing suddenly needs the Inquisitor’s stamp of approval.”

Varric was carefully quiet as he poured himself another mug of hot mead. The lantern burned brightly – too brightly – in the corner of his room. Despite his wealth, his trappings were simple and meaningful. A simple woven rug in Fereldan design, some carved stone bookends from Kirkwall. A hand carved wax seal with his personal insignia. They didn’t reveal that he had a great wealth, but what it did reveal was honest. It was a lot like the Dwarf. And she was comfortable here, with him.

“Well, maybe it means they really trust your opinion. For them to ask about every little thing, they must think your ideas have value,” he reassured. He took a long draught from his mug and set it down sharply. “Though,” he coughed in a rough chuckle, “if they ask you about what paper Josephine needs for her stationary, I’ll tell them where to get off.”   
  
She chuckled dryly with a shake of her head, taking a long, slow sip of the herbal tea. “Yesterday it was flour. Today it was where we source the fabric for the drapes, or which guild we hire to fashion the stained glass windows.” She sat up straighter, crossing her arms. “Which, I might add, are supposed to have _my_ likeness in them. Is this some sort of joke?” A sudden ire began to simmer in her chest. She scowled. “I’m a person! I’m not the Queen, and I’m certainly not the Maker. You know that blasted eyesore of a chair is where I’m supposed to sit, like some sort of … of … _dictator_! A judge!” Another long sigh snaked its way between her lips. “I wanted to help people, Varric. Not … this.” Whatever _this_ was.

A soft silence hung in the space between them, a comfortable one, the kind of silence that allows thoughts to untangle and settle into their proper places. The sort you only find with friends.

“All I know is, I think you can do it.” He grinned, and she grinned crookedly in return. “It may not be in the way they want you to, but you’ll find a way. But,” he said, raising his brows as he reached for his thin, gold rimmed spectacles, “you need to make it a priority to just be _you_. Let _Lissa_ have some time to herself. All Inquisitor and no play makes for a bad ending. I’ve seen that story play out too many times. _Trust_ me.”

She swirled the tea around in the mug before chugging back the rest of the lukewarm contents. “I’ll do my best.” She reached into her sack and pulled out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. “Here, I almost forgot,” she said warmly. “I brought some fresh bread from the kitchen. I managed to snag some honey comb on our last trip. I thought it might be a nice diversion.”

“Ooh,” his brows raised, and he eyed the parcel curiously as she unwrapped the hearty bread. “Wait, isn’t that when you got the…?” he pointed to his eye and squinted.

She grimaced. “The sting that welted my eye nearly shut? Yes,” she admitted through gritted teeth.

He did not hold back a chuckle at her expense. “Well, I hope it’s worth it, Sparky! I gotta be honest, that was not a good look for you.”

She broke off a piece of the dark, crusty bread and placed it on the brown parchment. After drizzling a generous amount of honey on it, she offered it to her friend. “Yeah, well, nothing a little ice couldn’t cure. Besides, I didn’t think it looked very good on me, either. Although” She grinned, “the look of disgust on Vivienne’s face was nearly worth it.”

He took a wide bite out of the bread and dusted the crumbs from the hair on his chest. “So what’re you reading these days?” he asked with a mouthful as he peered into her rucksack.

She straightened with a start and fought back the urge to hide away her books. “Oh, just some…” she fumbled, “…educational reading.”

He washed backed some of the bread with a short sip of his mead. “Look, kid, you don’t have to hide what you read anymore. You’re not in the Circle, remember?”

The surge of nerves started to die down as her logic caught up with her emotional habits. She grinned lopsidedly. “I know, it’s just…hard to break a habit. At least I was in one of the less restrictive Circles. When I was caught reading something I smuggled in after a day trip, my punishment was far less severe than in others.” A shiver creeped its way up her spine at the thought. “Sometimes it’s hard to get over what was said to you when you’re young and impressionable. Sometimes,” she sighed, feeling as if an old shadow suddenly raised from her past, “what they say about you is hard to rewrite.” She turned to him, grinning as she caught him licking some honey from his fingertips. “But it gets easier when the right people have your back. I feel like I have a lot of lost time to make up. Someone like you has had so many more experiences than I.” Her toned softened dreamily. “Being able to learn things as quickly as you could devour them, being free to make mistakes and learn from them, the things you must have seen…” True, she might have been admiring their resident Elvhen Apostate with her words, but they fit just the same with her Dwarven friend. Even the tight-buttoned Commander must have seen his share of life more than she had.

He slipped the spectacles further back on his nose and went to scribbling something down. “Well, I’d say you’re off to a good start. Pursuing things that interest you is a good thing, even it if it that mumbo-jumbo _really_ gives me the chills.”

Her brows cinched. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t bother to look up when he answered. “Your lessons with Chuckles, of course.”

“I … I did not realize you were aware of them. I haven’t even started them yet,” she cleared her throat nervously. How exactly did he know about this? Had Solas told him? Had someone been listening so late in the evening?

“Look, I think it’s a good thing. Getting exposure to different views, different places … it’s good for everyone, especially, I think, someone who spent most of their life in one those towers. But do me a favor,” he turned, looking at her from over his lenses, brows raised pleadingly, “just … _watch_ yourself. Something about that hobo, not-Dalish, Apostate Elf makes me _uncomfortable_.”

She chuckled. “You’re a good friend, Varric. I appreciate your concern, although, how did you --?”

“You better get going. You might be late to your first lesson.”

She narrowed her eyes at him with a sly grin. She could tell he wouldn’t say anything more on the matter. He was a friend, but his spymaster habits would die hard. However he came upon this information, she knew he would not say.

“Alright, Tethras. I’m leaving.” She picked up her satchel of books and slung it over one shoulder. “Enjoy the bread.”

  


 

Before pushing open the doors to the rotunda, she did a quick check of her books. From treatises on blood magic to theories on the Fade, she had pulled out just a few. She had so many questions. She had even braved the Chargers Elvhen members to teach her a few phrases. She rehearsed the phrases one more time to be sure, mouthing them silently with her lips in practice. After taking in a deep breath, she pushed through the door.

Solas was standing next to his desk, poring over some loose papers intently. He looked over his shoulder, and his strict expression smoothed to a smile. She tried to keep her pulse in check. _The excitement of learning something new, something previously forbidden, must be getting to me_.

“Ah, Inquisitor. I’m glad you’ve come. Your punctuality is to be admired among a schedule so tightly reigned by others.” He turned to face her as she entered the room, folding his hands behind his back. She felt oddly exposed as he examined her from head to toe, eye lingering on her pack. “You have brought something?”

She cleared her throat. “Well, I wasn’t really sure exactly what you would be teaching me. I just … picked out a few books that might be valuable, in case you had something you wanted me to research.” She dropped the bag down next to the table with a heavy thud. “I just wanted to be prepared.”

His eyes narrowed and his full lips thinned in a grin. He knelt and examined the spine of each book, setting them up on the table. “You have quite the selection, and must be anticipating a challenging assignment.”

“Admittedly, I’ve no idea what to expect. I’ve had no formal training outside of the Circle, as you _regularly_ point out,” she added a teasing arch to one brow.

He straightened, a coy tug at one corner of his mouth. “What is it you wish first to learn?”

What a question! There were so many things, how could she pick a first? She hesitated, unsure if this in his own way a test. “Everything?” she finally mustered with a shrug. “If I don’t know what I’m lacking, how can I know what I need?”

He regarded her for a long moment, but she thought she saw the hint of approval gleam in his eyes. “Very well. Then let us start with my rescue maneuver from yesterday. While not the most ideal locations, we’ll have to use the training grounds here at Skyhold.”

Her eyes widened in excitement. She was actually going to get to _try_ something first, not just read about it. She felt giddy with anticipation, and her face split into a stupid smile without her permission.

“Come,” he asked kindly as he led her towards the tavern.

She fell into step with him, pacing him quietly, comfortably next to him as they walked.

“Have you any questions about the technique?”

Her mouth ran away with her. “Oh, yes. I’ve been wondering if it is tied to your skill as a _Somniari_. Without any skill in that discipline, will I have success?”

“I believe that with your mark, you have a unique tie to the Fade that will enable to use it without dedicating time to the practice of Dreamers. Although, it is a profitable skill, and one I think you should consider learning.”

She nodded eagerly. “When you shaped the Fade, did you focus on where you wanted to be, or where you were at? How did you know you would take me to the courtyard and not the top of Cullen’s tower?”

“I focused on both. You must know where you are to know where you want to be. You must be in touch with your present state of being, recognize the energies around you, and imagine the feel and shape of the space around your destination. You must cultivate an intimate awareness of your surroundings if you are to truly master this skill. _That_ is how you direct yourself.”

“So then, what’s keeping me from getting stuck in between two places or from being lost in the Fade?” She wondered if he would be bother by her tumbling stream of questions, but he seemed amused, perhaps even pleased and he patiently answered each question.   
  
“Perhaps if you attempted something of this nature in your previous institution with no one of any experience or merit in the art, you may have experienced these difficulties. But as I am with you, I will be certain you won’t launch yourself into a ravine.”

The ground near the training dummies was covered in sparse patches of green grass. Most of the ground had been worn down to earth. A few deep rivets cut into the dirt, and she imagined Cassandra’s aggressive form, taking out her frustrations on the training ground. Thankfully, there were no soldiers training at this hour. But judging from the commotion from inside the Herald’s Rest (a name she loathed) the soldiers were enjoying a brief respite.

“Ideally, we would begin lessons somewhere where the veil is thin. Here, it shall take a much more concerted effort. Tell me, what did you learn of the Fade?”

“Studies of the Fade directly were rather…limited,” she admitted. “The Fade, after all, is the source of all demons, and to flirt with it is to flirt with death.”

He scowled. “The Fade is no more dangerous than this realm. If you approach it with fear, you will attract fear. Your mind touches the Fade every night, and yet you remain whole and well. What you experience in dreams _is_ the Fade. Once you realize that it is only your own mind and your prejudices and experience that limits your journey, you will begin to develop the ability to manipulate it to your needs. That is what the Fade is for: possibilities. Now,” he straightened, folding his hands at the small of his back, “concentrate. Clear your mind of anything that is not now. Close your eyes. Focus on the present.”

She closed her eyes as instructed and tried to forget the toils of the day, put aside the work of the war table. Instead of tense conversations of political influence, she focused on the gentle tug of wind against her hair, the smell of hay and leather wafting from the nearby barn.   
  
Suddenly, his voice was next to her ear, his smooth tone setting a tingle to creep down her spine. “Breathe, and with each exhale, you must rid your mind of negativity. You will attract what you are, and to be worried and fearful will attract spirits of worry or fear.” The sound of his voice and the padding of his bare feet encircled her slowly like a predator hedging his prey. She imagined him watching her with narrowed, focused eyes. Carefully measuring her breath, in and out, in and out, she shifted the focus of her thoughts to the now. The energies around her suddenly surged with life as she became aware of their presence. Her skin tingled and the tensions of the day seemed to melt from her knotted muscles.

“Good,” he remarked softly, his voice smooth and warm. She imagined a slight grin thinning his full lips, and a chill broke out across her forearms.

“Now focus on your destination.” His voice carried and echoed from … somewhere. She scowled, trying to discern his location.

_Where have you gone?_

“Reach out to my energy, and then allow the draw of the Fade to drink you in.”

She could feel the press, the utter want of the Fade to suck her up. Usually, she repressed it. When it was dark and she was alone, sometimes the pull was strong enough to scare her, set her trembling in a cold sweat. But she was supposed to follow it? Allow it to swallow her up?

“But…” she stammered, “what if I do it wrong?” Visions of being lost in the Fade for the remainder of her days, the Breach unsealed, and the world burning threatened her inner peace. And for what? Wanting to learn a simple trick? To impress him?

“But what if you succeed?” he answered back sharply, challenging her fear.

A knot twisted in her gut, and the draw of the Fade called her to like a dangerous lover, tempting and deadly. She allowed that feeling to sink her, soak into her skin, her mind, until she felt compelled to take the first step. Just as her foot began to move as if by a spell, his voice broke the reverie.

_“Focus on me,”_ his voice pleaded in her mind, his voice reverberating against her consciousness. _“Concentrate on me and simply finish the step.”_

Focus on him…

She reached out with her mind and thought of him, his confident stance with his staff, his slender fingers that twisted and commanded magic with strong grace, the light dusting of freckles on his cheeks. She could sense him, his presence. He had such a wonderful, powerful aura. The around him was so different, so eager to perform. The energy was powerful, but quick, a testament to his beautiful, brilliant mind. A slow burn began to build in her core until the heat finally travelled to her face. Even her ears felt hot.

What was this strange reaction she had to him? Flustered at the strange sensations fluttering in her gut, buzzing in her chest, she opened her eyes, only to find she was not where she thought.

She was in the Fade.

Well, most of her. As her foot reached out to touch ground, the two realms merged together in a dizzy blend. She gasped, all sense of mental poise shattered. Suddenly, the physical realms seemed to swim away and the Fade threatened to swallow her up. The weight of it increased on all sides as she sank further and further below the surface of reality. Her eyes suddenly felt very heavy, and a sudden urge to sleep drugged her mind.

_“Lissa, focus!”_

She snapped back to attention with a sharp gasp, and stepped forward.

But her foot did not meet the ground.

Gone was the sinking feeling of before to be replaced with a lurching from her gut as she tumbled in the air, free falling. As suddenly as her stomach flipped with the realization, she crashed into the ground with an unceremonious thud.

“ _Ohhh_ ,” she groaned, fighting through the stiffness to right herself. With effort, she lifted her aching head and blinked her eyes.

_Oh, Maker!_

She was not on the ground. She had landed on top of her teacher. And now they were pressed face to face in a heap of tangled limbs and red hair. Her body sprang to immediate awareness, noticing every point of contact their bodies shared. Her chest pressed against his, trapping the bone of his necklace snugly beneath her breasts. Her mind would not ignore how his legs, firm and lean against her curves, tangled around hers, or the way his heartbeat pulsed in the firm sinews of his wrist beneath her smooth palm. Her eyes locked onto his lips, so near hers the slightest tremble of earth beneath them would set them to meeting. And most unnerving of all was the flicker of desire,

_Wishing it would_.

She forced the thought down with confusion.

“A most … _interesting_ result,” he replied, the press of her against him making his voice rough. She could feel the warm breath of him against her mouth, taste the tangy heat of it.

Her chest clenched tightly until she thought she could not breathe, but the trance of him slowly melted away, making way for reality to come rushing in.

Raucous laughter boomed from the window nearby as the Chargers raised their glasses in mock toasts.

“Nice aim, Herald!” Krem boomed, turning his head with a tart wink. “Good thing you didn’t try that move on the Boss,” he pointed to his head where Bull’s horn would be.

Suddenly, shrinking into the Fade and being lost forever did not seem like so bad an option.

A fruity and genuine chuckle gently drew her attention. “Our interactions are, at the least, predictably unexpected.” He had the closest thing to a smile she had even seen, and his brows were quirked in bemusement. Solas gracefully untangled himself, dusted off his breeches, and extended a slender hand to her aid.

She accepted it, trying too hard not to wish his touch linger, fighting off vain wishes and imaginations. Did he squeeze her hand just now? No, of course not. But that gleam in his eye … had it always been there? He looked at her sidelong, the corner of his lip curved, and he released her, his fingers slipping away slowly. Too slowly?

Ah! She wanted to scratch the thoughts from her mind, drown them in something – anything – else. What had happened? Had a desire demon somehow tricked her during her brief visit? Had she hit her head during the fall? How was she supposed to concentrate on the lesson?

“Shall we try again?” he offered patiently, and her chest bubbled brightly beneath her breasts.

She breathed in. Out. Measuring her heart beat between the excited thoughts. _In. Out._ With her emotions somewhat stilled, she spared it a thought, her eyes narrowing on her instructor.

He was intelligent, patient, highly skilled, and remarkably kind, despite his attempts to seem distant. His mind was an unsearchable pool of knowledge and history, and she would enjoy nothing more than spending every last moment seeking to know the end of it. She admired him, respected him, his skill, his character. He was her friend. A simmering started behind her breasts that made her ache and her stomach fluttered nervously.

What was going on? 

His head titled slightly, and he looked at her curiously. “Well?”

She cleared her throat, and nodded strictly, trying to reign in her odd nerves. Now was the time for learning. She would have to sort out her feelings later. “Yes, of course.” She grinned, meeting his sea foam eyes eagerly. “I think I’d like to try again.”


	19. Elhven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind comments. That you take a few minutes out of your day to encourage me makes me feel so special and inspired to write more! <333 
> 
> And remember, while I cannot guarantee I will actually use every suggestion, feel free to make requests in the comments. What do you want to see more of? 
> 
> Enjoy!

Lissa stretched her back discreetly, leaning against the war table. If they were always here so blasted long, would it be so hard to requisition some chairs?

“…and the reports coming in from the Western Approach are unsettling.” Cullen finished, although she only half heard him.

“Our scouts have been unable to determine the exact nature of the Wardens’ actions, but it does compel further investigation.” Leliana added, placing a thoughtful finger to her chin. “Wouldn’t you agree, Inquisitor?”

Lissa straightened slowly, rolling her shoulders to try and ease the growing tension. Somehow, she knew another trip was going to be negotiated. She might as well get it over with. “Perhaps we could ask Blackwall to shed some light on their actions? It might be profitable to get a first-hand look. I could gather a team, if you think it would help.”

Leliana quirked an eyebrow. “Yes, it would. Commander, how long will it take to get a troop ready to move?”

He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I could have something ready to move by morning if necessary.”

Morning? Oh no, that was much too soon. She was still working on a project for her lessons with Solas, and she had not finished the reading. But delaying an important mission on behalf of her personal interests was not at all responsible behavior for an Inquisitor.

She felt the Nightingale’s eyes shrewdly estimating her. Had she taken too long to respond?

“Josephine,” Leliana inserted, “isn’t there a shipment of supplies coming in tomorrow?”

“Why yes,” Josephine perked up, flipping through the papers on her board. “In fact, several of these items were requisitioned for our troops near Adamant. If we delayed the investigation for at least a day, we could send them with the soldiers.”

Cullen nodded. “That would work. It is efficient, and I can see no reason not to delay it a day.”

“Then we’re in agreement?” Lissa asked brightly, perhaps too brightly. They looked at her in unison, each nodding. “Good. Then I suppose I should get ready to head out towards the Western Approach.”

“Take care, Inquisitor,” Cullen added, his tone warmer than usual. “Some of the reports are very suspicious. I don’t like what’s going on there at all.” His brows cinched together, and his nose wrinkled slightly.  The overhead chandelier cast a light that caught in his scar as he curled his lip. “In order to better prepare you, we’ve taken the liberty of contacting some specialists.”

“What?”

“Should you wish to better prepare yourself for what we assume is to come, we have requested some master Mages to work as your personal trainer,” Leliana added, leaning back against the wall.

A trainer? Why did she need a trainer? There were three exceptionally capable Mages in their company, all with different styles of magic that she greatly admired. By now, they were all aware of her sessions with Solas. Was this a jab at her own efforts? At Solas’ ability to teach?

“It took some considerable effort, what with the Mages dispersed. But we believe we’ve found the _best_ in their field,” Josephine added pointedly.

Lissa scoffed, a sound that accidentally slipped between her lips. Her advisors stared at her in disbelief. Suddenly, she felt more than a little guilty and quickly tried to explain away her reaction.

“It’s just … it seems like a _bit_ of a waste of resources,” she challenged gently. “We have several fine mages in our company, all of whom I readily trust. Why not simply have one of them train me?” She rested her hands on her hips. “I _very_ much doubt any one of them would not be ready to prove how much they know.”

Leliana was the first to reply. “Those who fight by your side must see you as their leader and trust your abilities. You are the Inquisitor. Your positional relationship between your comrades will be different by necessity.”

She crossed her arms. The words, so final, stung. Who got to say how she related to her comrades? They were not just nameless soldiers, or additional targets. They were her _friends_. She did not care if she were Inquisitor or the Queen of Ferelden. Lissa crossed her arms defiantly. She did not often resist their suggestions, but this?

Josephine stepped neared the table. “From a political standpoint, it makes a greater impact on the records to show that in an _official_ capacity, the Inquisitor had a formal trainer. But if you want to ask any of your friends to tutor you, I can’t see why not.” 

“Political?” the word jumped from her lips before she could stop it. “We’re talking about the person who gets to crow, ‘I trained the Inquisitor.’ And, should we win this thing, they’ll have an immense arsenal of bragging. Who besides those in our confidence do we really want to offer that sort of power?”

Cullen shifted his weight between his feet. A sheen began to build on his forehead, a sure sign he too was nearly at his limits. “Inquisitor,” he added pleadingly, “if we were to give that sort of influence to one of the Mages here, whom would you suggest?”

Leliana quicly answered. “Vivienne would no doubt make good use of it, proudly flaunting her Inquisitor protégé. I fear the path it would enable her to take. The political atmosphere with Tevinter is at too high a temperature to risk raising Dorian to that status, and we know too little of Solas to allow him that luxury. For the good of the Inquisition, the trainers _we_ have chosen would not only be sufficient to teach you, but they are also able to controlled if need be.”

A long sigh flared out of her nostrils. Of course they had reasoned it all out beforehand, and of course their logic would look so perfect on paper. _Well done, Advisors. Well played_ , she thought with a measure of hurt. Why could they have not discussed it with her before making a decision? Ah, but the decision of whom she trains with would be hers, after all. So somehow that must make it better. And no matter what reply she began to build in her mind, there was no other option that best suited the Inquisition’s purposes. But it still upset her, and she wasn’t entirely sure why.

She forcibly uncrossed her arms and slipped them unassumingly at her side. She sweetened her tone to soften her reply. “I hardly wonder why you need me, when you have everything sorted so well. It’s so comforting to know that, should anything happen to me, the Inquisition will be in capable, logical hands.”

Josephine and Cullen seemed embarrassed by her praise, but Leliana locked onto her with a sideways glance. The subscript of it was easily read.

 _I know what you did just now_.

She swallowed tightly in her throat. “I suppose the trainers will be here any day?”

“They should be present by your return from the Western Approach mission,” Josephine added brightly.

“Well, let’s hope nothing happens to me between now and then.” She stared at the back wall as she dared another cleverly veiled, terse reply. “I so love learning, and I anticipate seeing what masters you’ve so delicately selected for me.”

 

“Very good,” Josephine replied as she checked off a few items on her parchment with a flourished gesture. “I believe that covers each of our items.”

The last few words echoed off her back as she slipped out the door.

 

 

She needed to think. After cutting through the Great Hall, she ducked out a side door and entered a barren courtyard. It was small, and sequestered on all sides, sheltered from the winds and the storms. It seemed like a safe place, and were it not for the rubble and broken pillars and half buried statues, she thought it was a grand place. Old vines, dried and brown from lack of care, twisted around the debris and sparse, course weed grass sprung up in odd places.

It was such a barren place, but it held so much potential. She almost felt sorry for the space being wasted and unappreciated. It could be so beautiful were it simply given care and attention. She imagined a few well-placed statues and trellises for the vines. A sprawling garden and a few rough benches would make this a lovely place to reflect. It was a place she needed.

She huffed in determination and rolled up her sleeves. _No time like the present_.

She started with the weeds. After coiling her fingers around and around the reedy overgrowth, she heaved, tugging and ripping the dried roots free of their hold. With a series tugs and yanks, the sharp weeds were plucked and discarded in a heap. As she cleared out the rubble, she found pieces of broken stained glass and shards of pottery. She tilted her head, looking at the broken pieces wistfully. A sentimental grin tugged on her lip. It was an old hobby of hers, from before her days in the Circle. As a child, she had collected pretty things, broken things, discarded and unwanted by no one else. They cost her nothing, but afforded her with material to create. She gathered her robes into an apron and scoured the courtyard for more of the broken shards. After two hours of bending and pulling, and heaving aside the largest pieces of rubble she could handle on her own, she had managed two heaping piles of brush and a fair supply of broken trinkets. She swiped the collecting sweat on her brow and brushed aside tendrils of hair that stuck to her sweaty face. She huffed, blowing a droplet of sweat of the end of her sloped nose. At least all of the physical labor had given her mind something else on which to focus.

She stood, pressing her hands into her lower back as she leaned backwards, stretching out the gathering knots. Much progress had been made, and she looked at her handiwork with pleasure.

The center had been mostly cleared, aside from the larger pieces of debris she could not move on her own. The dirt was swept smooth, and was now a plot waiting for a tender hand. The scent of freshly turned earth filled her nostrils, and she took a deep breath, sighing in satisfaction.

The door behind her creaked on old hinges and shut with a soft click. “Inquisitor,” Solas greeted, “I had begun to wonder if you had been tied up with official duties. I checked with Josephine, and she said you left several hours ago. Have you forgotten our lesson?”

A dirt-covered hand flew to her forehead. “I completely forgot!” she lamented with a groan. “I’m so sorry, I –“ she sighed, “I had a bit of a frustrating conversation earlier.”

 

He looked her over, and she felt as though he started to see through her. Then his gaze shifted to the courtyard. “You’ve made some considerable improvement here.”

She scratched at her forearms, dirt scraping under her fingernails.  “It was a good avenue for relieving some frustration,” she chuckled.

“Perhaps we should delay your next lesson until you return? This would allow more time to prepare.”

A sinking feeling plummeted in her gut. “Oh, no, really! I want to have our lesson, it’s just …” She sighed. “I’m so sorry if I’ve jeopardized your evening. I know it’s asking a lot, but is there any chance you have time now?”

He looked her over and replied simply, “Why don’t you take time to prepare, and then meet me in the rotunda?”

“That’s very generous of you,” she bowed in thanks, ignoring the curtain of hair that fell around her face. With haste, she gathered up her valuable trinkets, scooping them into her robes and dashing off to wash.  “I’ll be there as quickly as I can, I promise!”

 

*   *   *

 

Solas waited in the rotunda, bent over a few of his books. He had angled the desk to allow for more room and added a second chair for his pupil. As he waited, his mind stewed with questions. What was the purpose of this mark? How had Corypheus been able to unlock his magic? And why couldn’t _he_? It rankled him. He felt a growl in his chest when he thought of that foul creature employing his magic, his orb, for his own ill purpose. Perhaps Solas had weakened in his sleep? Or was it something more complex that he was missing?

His eyes looked at the page, but he did not see it. His mind was rehashing events, over and over. He had studied that mark on her hands for days, seen it close rifts again and again, and yet he was still no closer to knowing why it responded to her. These lessons with their Inquisitor afforded him with plenty of time to study it intimately, watch it act, but each experience only led to more questions. How had she come by this magic? How had she survived the Fade? What was so different about this human mage?

The door creaked, and all at once the scent of rose spilled into the rotunda. Lissa stepped in, and the fragrance blossomed until the entire room was filled with the scent of her.  She wore simple garments and was wrapped in a silk robe, and carried a tray of what he feared was tea. Oils of her wash still clung to her still pink skin, softened from the bath. Her cheeks were pink, as was the petal soft skin just below the wings of her collarbone. Beneath the heady blanket of florals, he could smell the heat of her skin. She was earthy and rich and warm. The aura of the magic surrounding her felt so young, so fresh, but it moved with the fluidity of years of practice. Her damp hair, burnished as a fox pelt, was restrained in a tight braid trailing down the length of her right shoulder until it dusted the generous swell of her breast. His eyes narrowed, remembering the press of them against his chest. But he did not ask her here for vanities. He reminded himself he had work to do. His eyes darted back to hers. Her amber eyes, bright with curiosity and anticipation looked to him with expectation.  He straightened, meeting her gaze with a look of promise.

_Oh, little fox, be mindful what you wish for._

“Ah, the prodigal student returns,” he teased, watching with veiled satisfaction at the control his words had over her. The pink of her cheeks deepened to mauve, washing away her freckles.

Carefully, she set the tray down on the desk. She tucked a stray tendril of wet hair behind her smooth ear as she often did when he manipulated her so. She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, I may have gotten just a bit carried away. Events at the war table had me more than a bit flustered. I very much appreciate you being so flexible.”

“It didn’t take much to reach that conclusion.” If he were careful, he might be able to work his way into her upcoming mission. The extra time to study her magic in action would help him greatly. He gestured to the additional chair next to his, ushering her to sit. He warmed his tone and softened his expression deliberately to draw her out. “What happened to upset you so?” he asked as he pulled out the chair.

She acquiesced, sinking into the chair with a huff. Her copper strands brushed against his knuckles like a curtain of wavy silk. “My advisors feel I need formal training to satisfy our political backers.”

He held back a scowl. It was not a surprise that the majority of powers that could support the Inquisition would be wary of a Mage Inquisitor. They were all bumbling, frightened children, trying to contain their fears behind stone walls so they could sleep at night. But they were far past Mage rights; now the Inquisition looked only to raw survival. And for that, they needed to play along. And he needed them to reach his goal. He sat in the chair next to her and steepled his fingers.

“I’m certain a formal training would make your backers less suspicious, although academically, it is a wasted maneuver. Politically, however, your advisors are correct.”

Her brows cinched. “So … you’re not upset?”

He raised an eyebrow in question. “Why should I be?”

“I … well, I _assumed_ you enjoyed our lessons,” she folded her hands in her lap and twisted her fingers anxiously.

“Are they being threatened?”

“They _were_ ,” she insisted pointedly. Her back stiffened with ire. “They will _allow_ me to choose a trainer. It may be for the good of the Inquisition,” she huffed. “But it’s not what I wanted…” she added quietly, looking down at the table.

“What did you want?”

Her gaze reached his, but only for a moment. “I wanted you to teach me.”

He forced down the swell of pride that surged behind his ribs. “And what did they say?”

She scoffed. “Nothing complimentary. They don’t trust you the way I do.”

He turned, eyes narrowed on her. “You trust me?”

She chuckled brightly, as if the question were silly. “Of course I do, Solas.” She reached out with her warm hand, so small compared to his, and rested it gently on his wrist in an intimate punctuation. “You’re here to _help_ , I know that. We – I already owe you a great deal. You’re my friend.”

She considered him a friend. It had been so long since he tried to make friends in the waking world. It was a dangerous thing to do, he had told himself when he woke. He would not find a common soul among the broken home he once knew, and he certainly would not befriend a human who destroyed what home he had. He had said that to himself, a bitter promise with no hope of breaking it. Her grin was kind, her eyes so clear and genuine. Another piece of his broken shell was chipped away with the look in her eyes.

And he smiled.

“As are you, _falon_.” __  
  
Her hand slipped away, and the air was a cool replacement for her touch.

“ _Falon_?” she asked, with a slight wrinkle to her nose.

He chuckled. “It is Elvhen for ‘friend,’” he explained as he reached for a cup of the warm liquid.

Her eyes brightened and smiled. “Oh! Thank you, _Edhis*_.”

He choked on the rich drink, only managing to keep from spewing the hot, sweet liquid across the room. He thumped his chest once and pressed his eyes closed as he swallowed.

“Oh, goodness! I’m so sorry. I should have told you; it’s very hot. It’s a drink from Orlais. I thought you woul—“

“ _What_ did you say?” he finally asked, carefully setting the cup back down.

She looked at him sidelong, glancing from him to the tray. “It’s … a drink. From Orlais. It’s—“

“No, what did you say in Elvhen?”

She seemed to deflate and shifted in her seat uncomfortably. “I said it wrong, didn’t I? I was afraid that would happen.”

He cleared his throat. “That depends entirely on what you were trying to say.”

She scowled in confusion. “Well, I tried to say ‘teacher.’ I practiced with Skinner and Dalish for the longest time, but I apparently couldn’t get the pronunciation right. They just laughed at me the whole time.”

“A common Dalish phrase for teacher would be _ha’hren_ , or perhaps more fitting for our arrangement, _ghi’lan,_ ‘one who guides’. I think perhaps if you wish to learn Elvhen, you should choose your tutors more carefully.” 

“Then what does _edhis*_ mean?”

He inhaled slowly through his nose and swallowed stiffly. “I very much doubt you’d like to know. However, if you wish to learn the basics of anatomy in Elvhen, you’re off to a solid start.”

Predictably, she flushed with embarrassment.  “I- I’m sorry! I had no idea…” She looked as if she would melt into a puddle and slip under the table. He grinned crookedly.

“If you wish to learn useful Elvhen, I’d be happy to oblige you.”

A serrated chuckle escaped her petal soft lips. “I’d prefer if we skip the anatomy bits for now…” she groaned in embarrassment.

“For now?” a cocky voice called from above. “Things were just starting to get interesting!” Dorian crowed as he peered over the ledge, a book in one hand and a wine glass in the other.

Solas scowled at him, but surprisingly, Lissa met back with a reply of her own. “Oh, Dorian, I thought you’d be more _jealous_ than entertained.”

“Ah! Don’t mistake my generous spirit for dismissal. If you’d oblige, I’m always willing to be _entertained,”_ he added a lift of his glass.

Lissa simply chuckled, and though the exchanged prickled him, he was surprised at Lissa’s adaption to her comrades. Before, she would have stammered and fled, her skin a shade to rival that of her garnet hair. But she had truly grown and tempered since he had known her.

“Anyway,” she said softly, her voice a purr that tickled his ears, “I would _very_ much like to learn Elvhen.” She poured herself a mug of the thick, pearlescent liquid and eagerly took a sip. She licked the cream from her lips and cupped the mug between her two hands and drank in the steam with a deep breath. “Does it help with spells?”

“Elvhen?”

She nodded. “Yes. I wondered if, since ancient Elves were the first to use magic, maybe their language is key to making it work so beautifully. It feels so much more musical than my common tongue. I guess it seems like a pretty silly question now…” she chuckled.

“No, that you should ask means you are thinking deeply. There _is_ an intimate relationship between certain spells and ancient Elvhen. It may improve your appreciation for magic.”

She begged for answers to ancient Arlathan, Elvhen symbolism, and his language. As he recalled some of the things he lived (through the guise of witnessing it in the Fade) she was at times nearly moved to tears. She listened carefully as he regaled his favorite memories of the Fade, watching him intently. She remained completely enthralled by his tails of his travels, only looking away to scratch some notes in a journal. And somehow, when before it seemed she was nothing but questions, she had got him to talk till he had nearly no more stories he could share.

Overhead, the stillness of the library stood out, and all but the fewest of lanterns remained lit for those that needed to find their way in the night. She chuckled, pouring the last bit of the creamy drink which had long since cooled. “That is amazing. Do you think we could go sometime?”

“I doubt we could make the trip in person, but perhaps I could show you a bit of it through the Fade?”

“That would be wonderful.”

Their conversation was punctuated by her yawns as she fought sleep to enjoy their discourse. As he head bobbed yet again, he grinned and rose from his chair. “I think perhaps it is time you slept, _lan'sila.*_ ”

She stood, her robes slipping over her curves like silken hands, sliding down her breasts, her flared hips. “Alright, ha’hren,” she said as she stretched in a wide yawn. “You win.”

He walked her to the door, watching as the flickering torchlight danced across her auburn crown and bounced off like little sparks of flame. “ _Era son, falon_.”

“ _Son era, Solas_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Non-canon tranlations provided by FenxShiral (http://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7825850)
> 
> Edhis = penis  
> Lan’sila = student (f)   
> Era son/Son era = Dream well / Sleep well


	20. Checkmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lissa cringed, suppressing a sigh. Vivenne and Solas were at it again, slinging darted words dripping with poisonous sarcasm and vitriol. Back and forth they volleyed, and she was nearing the end of her reason.

“Well, dear, I hope you can manage out here with the _big_ problems, not the little run-abouts and strays you would fend off the in the dirty, unsophisticated wild,” Vivienne facetiously pandered.

“Ha! Dirty and unsophisticated from a women who excels in the Game? I would expect a master of the Game to know how to get her hands dirty,” Solas quipped, eyes ever forward as they walked along the dry trail.

“Dirty, yes. Unsophisticated, no. Unlike you homeless Apostates, we Circle Mages know the importance of cleaning up after our own messes, not living in a constant state of dinginess, dear. You know, I can only imagine how much your appearance would improve with a recent bathing and some decent clothes.”

“Vivienne!” Lissa interrupted aghast at the brazenness of their insults. “That was a bit uncalled for, don’t you think?”

“Entirely, darling,” Dorian piped in, earning a look of disgust from Solas. “If anyone needs a bath, it’s Bull.”

“I smell _intimidating_ ,” Bull replied, crossing his arms across his broad chest dramatically. He flexed one arm, admiring his own bulk. “It’s my naturally secreted repellent against _weakness_.”

“Ugh,” Lissa cringed.

Vivienne ignored them and continued her press against Solas. “Darling, I only speak out of concern for you. I simply want you to be prepared. I have no doubt that on this journey we shall encounter things beyond your training.” She paused and feigned surprise. “Oh…my mistake. You’ve _had_ no training!”

Solas narrowed his eyes and sharpened his voice to a chill edge. “I shall do my best to learn from _your_ expertise you so _invaluably_ displayed when you aided in closing the Breech.” His tone was full of pride and sarcasm. He, too, paused for effect. “Ah!” he called out in mock revelation, his eyes still narrowed and facing the horizon. “My memory disservices me; _you_ were not _there_.”

“Yes!” Lissa interjected insistently as she quickened her steps and slipped in the center of the path between the two arguing mages. “You were there, Solas.” She nodded slowly, forcing a smile, and taking a deep breath to calm herself. She placed a hand on his elbow and added sincerely, “And we’re all grateful you were there to help.”  
  
The pressure of her hand on his arm was not demanding, but rather imploring, beseeching.

 _Begging_.

Her eyes, too, pleaded with him, looking up at innocently with a genuine gratitude. He knew she believed that no one else would have succeeded. He looked into that wide-eyed amber gaze, so full of trust and respect and in the back of his mind reared a primal urge to tear it out. It irritated him to see how she looked up to him, protected him. It was infuriating how much he _enjoyed_ it.

“Isn’t that right, Vivienne?” she asked pointedly and placed both hands on her full hips.

“When what was done actually matters, thanks will be outdated. And if I recall, just yesterday while we fighting those three bears, you set your own tunic on fire,” she reminded him with a sideways grin.

His appreciation was apparently short-lived. He scowled.

“My memory does not fail me. Yes, I remember it.”

“And do you recall who put out the fire?”

His jaw clenched. “A good deed done in ill-spirits is worse than a bad one.”

Vivienne called out over her shoulder, “Darling, those breeches were in such a sore state between your filth and the fire, my ice had nothing to do with that.”

Lissa chuckled and drew a hand to her mouth, looking at him apologetically.

“Water would have put out the fire without the accompanying consequences,” he added shorty.

“What?” Bull finally interjected, curiosity piqued. “What consequences?”

“Erm, well, let’s say…” Lissa hesitated, looking between Solas and the hulking Qunari.

“If ever you wish to find out, I’d be happy to reenact it with _you_ as the willing model,” Solas defended.

“Don’t encourage him!” Dorian exclaimed. “He needs little encouragement.”

“What? You mean--?” Bull’s eyebrow raised inquisitively.

“It wasn’t that much skin, really,” Lissa attempted to encourage, but her accompanying blush did not aid her. “It was only a few holes…”

“The draft said otherwise.” The Apostate remained straight and appeared indifferent, determined not to let the annoyance show.

“Oh! I get it now!” Bull said with a smile, punctuating it with a brief laugh. “Ha! That’s a good one, Madame.”  
  
His lip curled, but he otherwise ignored the brute, mostly for Lissa’s sake. He reminded himself why she mattered to him. The mark of course was of utmost importance, imperative to his mission. That she was safe and well was necessary to his own success.

Vivienne walked past, intentionally bumping into the mage and glancing down condescendingly as she sauntered off to the front of the pack. He started after her, about to quip some deserving reply, but a sudden tug on his tunic stopped him. In his frustration, he whirled on the offender, lips pulled back in a feral snarl.  
  
Lissa’s eyes widened in shock.

 _Damn_.

 _No_ , he had no reason to feel remorseful. He had _every_ right to put that pathetic mortal Enchantress in her place. She had no idea who she toyed with, and he would make her regret it.  He had been playing too gently, only _touching_ on his vast knowledge, and only because of the necessity of his secrecy. Were he able to reveal the full breadth of his wisdom and greatness, they would _cower_. There was no need to be sorry for his actions. In his pride, he yanked his arm from Lissa’s pleading grasp, earning an injury far worse than anything he’d experienced on the battlefield: a wounded expression darkened her eyes and she stepped back dejectedly. She muttered some sort of inaudible apology and slipped to the back of their caravan. The look on her face, the way her brows upturned in hurt, how her curious, sharp eyes widened, the way her petal-pink lips stuck parted wordlessly was a blow to his gut.  His _lan’sila_ , his _da’len_ , now had reason to ignore his guidance. Would she still look to him with those golden eyes full of want and wonder?  

He exhaled sharply through his nose and straightened his back, looking ahead. His jaw clenched in defiance of his feelings. He knew he was more capable than all them. How many more _thousands_ of years of experience did he need to earn their respect? He sneered. How blind could they be? They should be thankful he deigned to stop to aid them! He had every right to be haughty, every _right_ to be proud. He did not come here to make friends. He came here to save them. Their affections were fleeting, temporary, and beneath him. To care about their feelings, or worse – to care about one single human female’s feelings – was an illogical folly. There were greater things at stake here. And yet there was no way to reconcile his feelings with his mind.

The shuffle of feet and billowing dust continued along as they drudged down the path, providing a rhythmic backdrop to his warring thoughts.

Well, there was one way to make logical sense. Had he not been using her feelings for his own ends? How could he earn her trust, her confidence, if he pushed her away? He needed her. She was a means to an end.

He felt his jaw clench and the roughness of his staff dug into his palm and he clenched it tightly. Caring simply was not an option.

“Hey, Solas,” Bull prompted casually, “you have a style of play that is far from direct. You take the time to set your moves, look at the bigger picture. But you also don’t hesitate to strike when the opportunity arises.” He stroked his wide chin. “I like it. Keeps it interesting.”

Solas was almost thankful for the distraction. In his mind, he laid out the chessboard, their opposing pieces stuck in their last positions. He had planned contingency plan for contingency plan. He had devised clever and misleading and direct options for every possible move the Qunari could make. “Why thank you,” he preened, pride stroking his ego. “I, too, have enjoyed our match so far. Have you settled on a counter move yet?”

“I’m still working around the pesky issue of your pretty Mage…”

Solas scowled, envisioning the match clearly. Even by the most eclectic play styles, his Mage posed no obstacle to any of Bull’s moves. What more was he planning?

He raised his brows in confusion. “You may have me stumped. I cannot think of a single profitable move in which my piece would pose a threat.”

Bull shot him a look of meaning, and Solas followed his intended gaze, over his shoulder and back to the rear of their small caravan. Lissa and Varric were sharing a quiet conversation, and he felt a strange, possessive tug at their small talk. Lissa shook her head, a crooked smile parting to reveal a hint of pearly teeth. She looked up, her eyes met his, and the flare of her eyelids and sudden avoidance stung his steely pride.

Carefully, he turned his gaze forward. What was Bull’s intentions bringing Lissa into their discussion? What did he have planned? His mind whirred with possibilities and outcomes, his logic ever planning out the future like a game of chess, a set of moves and counter-moves and, his favorite, _traps_.

“Well,” Solas began nonchalantly, turning his gaze forward. “As I said, I see no reason why that _particular_ Mage is factoring into your next play. What move did you have in mind?”  

The warrior shrugged the massive bulk of his blocky shoulders. “I was just offering fair warning, in good sportsmanship. I think you’re about to lose your Mage.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” he asked more abrasively than he intended. What did he mean by that? _His_ Mage? What was he implying? “If you feel the need, by all means, make a move.” He fought down a savage curl in his lips, suppressed a feral urge to bare his teeth. Years of experience allowed his cool, distant, practice exterior to remain in place. He slipped his hands behind his back and responded smoothly. “I have little invested in its position.”  

Bull simply shrugged. “Oh, my mistake. Thanks for setting me straight on that.” He nodded shallowly several times and his eyes narrowed in thought. What was that Qunari planning?

Solas set up a lure. “It must be an interesting play you have in mind, considering you sought permission.”

“Permission? Nah,” he drawled. “It’s just … never mind.” He shook his head, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “I forgot you’re not interested.”

A counter trap. Solas sighed. “I know bait when I see it,” he stated his superiority. He could maintain his pride by forcing the desired answer with a false humility. “I concede. What is it?” One way or another, he would have an answer.

Bull spared him a smug grin as he expected, and instead, turned somber, his voice low. “I may only have one eye, but I’m fairly good at seeing things. Ben-Hassrath, remember.” It was odd how casually he flung around his status as a spy for one the most hated agencies in Ferelden, but Solas put aside that oddity and listened curiously to his words. “And I’d wager you’d be interested to get your own peek. I’d be willing to show you, if you’re prepared when we get back to camp.”

  
*   *   *  
  
Lissa settled in next to a fire, a cup of ‘trail stew’ steaming in a battered metal bowl. “So, Red, how you holding up?” Bull asked as he took a seat on the overturned log next to her. The trunk groaned, and the dirt crunched as the log shifted under his bulk.

She wiggled her feet, watching as the fire danced just beyond the reach of her boots. “My feet are sore, but otherwise fine, thank you.” She grinned with a tired smile.

He watched her for a moment, spooning a bite of his own soup to his lips. It was a comical sight, the spoor nearly swallowed by his enormous palm.

“Hey, Boss … you know I’m more observant than that. Besides,” he grinned crookedly, “you’re dealing with a professional liar.” He leveled his gaze at her, looking at her intently. “I know a lie when I hear one.”

Lissa sighed, dropping the spoon to rest in the bowl. She leaned forward onto her elbows and stared into the flames. “Well, that’s an inconvenient truth … guess I need to be a better liar.” She smirked.

“Nah,” he teased. “It doesn’t suit you. So, spill.”

She shifted on the rough log as she thought. How could she adequately put her feelings to words? Solas and Vivienne just … ugh! She mentally recoiled at the replay that began in her mind. “I’m just … so tired. Drained.” The more she thought about it, the more it rankled her. “And I’m plain angry at those two. Frankly, I expect better of them.”

“Who?”

She rolled her eyes. Was it not obvious? “You know who: Solas and Vivienne. They – I – ugh!” she set the bowl aside and buried her face in her hands. “They’re both brilliant Mages! I’ve learned so much from them. But if they’re so brilliant, why can’t they put their heads together and work towards a _solution_? Why must they always be at odds?” Here, at the heart of the Inquisition worked some of the most powerful and knowledgeable Mages she had known. With their differing perspectives, they might be the only ones to come up with a workable solution to the Templar-Mage wars. But instead they fussed and tripped over their own egos. It made no sense to her, and she felt more exasperated now than before. What was worse, she felt neither of them would listen to her.

“Why not tell them that?”

She sighed. “They’re both so proud. What could I say that could be of value to either of them?” Vivienne was so far beyond her in experience, skill, and beauty. Her raw vanity was a part of the intimidating character she played. Lissa was far too simple to have any cause to be considered by someone of her stature.

And Solas … Her chest tightened at the thought of him.

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short, Boss. You’ve got a lot of talent. Somehow you’ve managed to take all of us along and kept us from killing each other. And we like you. Most of us do, anyway. I’m pretty certain that at least five of us like you. No less than four.”

Lissa chuckled at his clowning. And though it did not help her position, it lightened her mood and she was grateful.

“Hey, _there’s_ that smile. Now, go on, practice.”

She scowled. “Practice?”

“Yeah, practice! What would you say? Let’s start with Solas. Somehow I think he might be easier to _crack_.” He slid down the log and leaned back, resting his hands across his girth. “Imagine that I’m Solas, pointy ears, bald, tiny … nothing like me at all.”

She laughed brightly and shook her head. “That might be beyond my imagination!”

“Aw, come on!” he urged. “I’m Solas, watch.” He adopted a stern expression and steepled his fingers over his chest. “See? I’m thinking. About the Fade.”

Lissa chortled through her nose.

“Go ahead. Tell me something, _da’len_.”

The use of her student title was odd and uncomfortable coming from him, but she cherished the term. Just imagining it in Solas’ voice warmed her chest, a heat blossoming behind her breasts.

But then the harsh look in his eyes broke through, and she remembered how he pulled away from her, angry and sharp. A chill blanketed the warmth, and she sighed. Perhaps playing along with Bull would make her feel better. The look on his – the real Solas’ face – she could not tell him what she thought. She took a deep breath and tried. “So, um … _Solas_ … is this a good time to talk?”

“Depends. Is it about the Fade?”

She rolled her eyes and held back a grin. “No. It’s about _you._ ”

“Ah! My second favorite subject. Please, go on.”

“It’s just …,” she took a deep breath, practicing her courage. In her mind, she envisioned talking with the real Solas. She could see him standing there, hands clasped behind his slender, toned frame as she looked up at him. “… I want you to know that I respect you a great deal, and I admire you very much.”

“Go on,” Bull urged, soaking up the practiced praise.

“But I feel that you devalue yourself when you argue with Vivienne as you do. You’re better than that, Solas. I _know_ it.” Her volume raised with her impassioned sincerity. “I wouldn’t let anyone disrespect you. That includes _yourself_. I just wish that – that you could see yourself as _I_ do.” The fluttering warmth returned to her core. But then the reality of saying those words to Solas came crashing down around her. “Oh, Bull,” she shook her head dejectedly, “I could never tell him that! He’d laugh at me.”

“Well, you’ve got it off your chest. How do you feel?”

She took a deep breath, let the air fill her lungs until they filled and taught. She let it out in a short sigh. “Better.”

“See? I made a pretty good Solas.”

She snorted. “Hardly.”

“I know,” his voice rumbled flirtatiously. “I’m more handsome, right?”

Lissa rolled her eyes, shaking her head as she picked up her bowl. “Again, I’d have to disagree.”

“Oh, come on!” He sat up, flexing his chest, curling his arms in front of him. “Look at this _brawn_!”

With a chuckle, she waved him off. “Okay, Bull. You’re handsome, too.”

He smiled crookedly, as if he won a game she did not know she was playing. “You think Solas is handsome!”

“What?” She whipped around too quickly at the accusation and almost spilled her soup. “I didn’t say that!” She willed, futilely, to force the flush from her face.

“The ears do it for you or something? Or is it the bald? I can’t quite place it.”

“ _Bull_!” she demanded forcefully, standing to make her point. She looked around cautiously, praying to the Maker Solas was nowhere nearby. Thankfully, he was nowhere to be seen. “Y-you’re just being ridiculous!”

“Well, if you’re into the whole brooding, fade-crap type…”

She plopped back onto the log in relief. “He does not brood,” she defended. “He _thinks_.” She went back to her soup, now cold, and slurped at some of the broth. “Thanks, Bull.”

“Anytime, Boss.”

Bull’s smiled curled with hint of a victory. “ _Checkmate._ ”

Her brows furrowed. “What?”

“Never mind, Boss,” he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Never mind.”


	21. The Growing Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lissa perused the shelves of the library, carefully reading each title. Her eyes grew tired from the strain, and she rubbed at the odd, fuzzy feeling overtaking them. She always compensated with her magic, using it to reach out in ways her eyes failed. _But magic can’t read the titles…_ She blinked several times, hoping to force away the hem of blurry black that seeped into her vision. She pressed her nose closer and closer until the blurred edges of words had more and more structure. But not even her nearness could make up for her eyesight. At this rate, her search would take forever.

 _It’s getting worse_.

“You look like you could use some help,” Dorian asked brightly. “Not that the sight of you bending in search of the perfect book doesn’t make me shiver in delight, but …” he smirked, an amused quirk twisting his lip, “you appear to be having a rather difficult time.”

Lissa straightened, arching her back to relieve the burning tightness wrapping around her ribs. “Oh, you know … just browsing.” She lied with an uncomfortable grin.

“You know, if you squint any harder, your face will swallow your eyes, I’m afraid. And it is such a pretty face. Think of the wrinkles!” His face was mockingly aghast. He always had a way of trying to cheer her up while not appearing benevolent. She grinned.

“I _may_ have been struggling to see the titles.”

“Ha! If your walk up here was any indication, you’ve been having problems seeing more than books, my dear.”

Had it been that obvious? True, when she thought she could get away with tentatively feeling her way about, she conserved her energy. Apparently, she had not been as out of sight as she had thought. She shifted uncomfortably. What could she say? Would she admit with spoken words that her sight was failing, or that she feared it would be …? No, she could not even give it words in her mind. It would make the fear too powerful. She did _not_ have to discuss this. She couldn’t. Bristling, she scooped up her books and responded plainly.

“Thank you for your concern, Dorian, but my problem is my own.” She moved to step past him, but he reached out, grabbing her by the forearm.

“Your own?” His voice was a harsh whisper, spurned with passion. “I think not! If the Inquisitor, our leader, our _friend_ , suddenly turns up blind, don’t we deserve to know?” He let her go and crossed his arms with a scowl. “Frankly, I’m hurt you didn’t say anything sooner.”

She was angry at him. Angry that he would press _this_ topic, and angry at him for making it so simple. It was not a simple matter! How would she say to her advisors, ‘oh, by the way, you picked an incapable leader?’ Would they trust her anymore? Would she have to leave? What would they think of her? It irritated her too, as he pointed out, that she had to hide from her comrades. But her friends needed to trust her! If they believed that she was helpless, incapable, it would perhaps hurt more than their injured feelings on her conscience. They depended on her. How could she let them down with a few words?

Her reply was sharper than she intended. “Well, I’ll surely express to the Maker that the matter of my eyesight is such a discomfort for you.”

“ _Vishante ka_ \- that is _not_ what I meant! You cannot pretend that you do not need help!” he insisted. “Believe me, I’ve been there before.” His voice softened and his tone warmed. “I can’t let you walk the same path I did for too long. You helped me. Please, let me help _you._ ”

She sighed, reluctantly shaking her head, fighting to keep the tears bottled up behind her eyelids. She did not meet his gaze when she replied quietly, “What do you want me to do?”

 

Her stomach twisted and churned, and her hands felt suddenly cold as a clammy sweat cloyed to her palms. He took her arm as regal as a courtier, and guided her gently to their conference chamber. Though her fears whispered calamity after calamity, she could not ignore the comfort of having her secret exposed to him. He had not treated her like she incapable, or helpless. Rather, he treated her like a piece of fragile Orlesian glass, delicate and valuable. Since she would need her mental strength to address her advisors, she could trust his leading and save her energy for later.

“You’re a good friend, Dorian. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you enough to tell you earlier.”

“Think nothing of it. I’m just glad I was here to bring some sense to that thick head of yours.”

She chuckled, her voice quavering unusually with nerves. As she stepped through the wide doors to meet with her advisors, she was grateful for Dorian’s nearness and support. It was Dorian who arranged the meeting, Dorian who briefed the advisors, and it was Dorian who stayed next to her, and offered her an embrace of support as she admitted numbly to her peers,

“I’m going blind.”

She hated herself for crying in front of them, but try as she might the tears rolled heavily down her tears. Dorian’s grip around her shoulder tightened. Josephine swept over her like a mother hen, gently enfolding her in the silky billows of her sleeves. The Antivan wrapped her arms around her protectively. Josephine swiftly offered a handkerchief, scented with crystal grace and orchids and hemmed in fine lace. Lissa chuckled though an indelicate snuffle, dabbing at her eyes with the soft square.

“I – I had no idea,” Cullen ran his fingers through his half-tamed curls, causing a few strays to spring in the wake. “If I had known …” He shook his head, looking down at the map as his eyes darted over the pieces. “I never would have – Instead I – why did you not tell us sooner? You could have been killed!”

She sniffed again, wiping at the corner of her eye. “I’m _fine_ , Cullen. Most of the time, I compensate by using my magic to tell me what’s happening around me.”

His eyes narrowed. “You can do that?” He looked from Lissa to Dorian, a question drawing his masculine brows together.

“It is an impressive feat, but yes, it is possible,” Dorian added in her defense. “I often wondered at how her magic seems to be so reflexive and responsive, like an extension of her body. She’s quite resourceful, this one.”

“I – would never have known,” Cullen managed. “If you had been hurt …”

“It would not have been your fault,” Lissa offered softly.

Cullen shook his head, not accepting her excuse. “It is my job to see that you are kept safe.” He shuffled slightly at the sideways glances of his partnering advisors. “As the Inquisitor, your priority is the highest. Even without your admission, something as serious as this should have been something we noticed.”

“We _did._ ” Leliana commented, finally adding her piece to the puzzle. “Though subtle, it was obvious that you struggled with sight, staring at the stained glass through a strained squint, constantly being startled as people sneak up on you, your innate clumsiness.”

Lissa opened her mouth dumbly to protest, but nothing of merit came to mind.

“But as there was nothing we do to improve your position, I chose not to address it.”

Cullen straightened, looking at Leliana with a scowl. Lissa had a hunch there would more to this discussion after she left. Josephine wisely cut in.

“Well, now that we all know, what can we do with this knowledge? How can we use it to ensure the Inquisitor’s safety, both physically and politically?”

Lissa sighed. “Yes, I’m certain public knowledge that the Inquisitor is blind would not help our reputation very much.”

Josephine nodded quickly with a sigh. “That is true. It would weaken our position greatly, so whatever measures we make must be subtle.”

“What do you need?” Cullen asked insistently. “Dorian, how did _you_ find out about this?”

“As the Inquisitor and I both share a love of books, I noticed her trying with little success to read the titles. Whether she realizes it or not, she often sits in the corner, nose pressed between the spine.”

Lissa felt a heat rush to her face. Had it been that bad?

“Perhaps better lighting in the library?” Cullen suggested. “My soldiers could mount additional torches there.”

“Or we could look into installing a new window to allow in more light,” Josephine added. She scribbled quickly, and Lissa imagined her calculating the costs of labor and requisitions with each stroke that scratched across the page.

“Either would be too obvious. If we make that sort of a change, we may expose what we want kept secret,” Leliana suggested.

As the trio tossed ideas back and forth, Lissa spared a look to meet Dorian’s bored look. They were all so genuine and passionate about their point of views, all so willing to do something for _her_ , not just the Inquisition. A bit of the burden slipped from her shoulders.

“I _do_ have a suggestion…”

 

*   *   *

 

The wind was sharp and dry, and carried with it the coolness from the snowcapped mountains as it lofted over the steep walls of Skyhold. It rushed over his head, whistling across his ears, as he looked out into the merging of night and day into twilight. Solas drank in the shifting energies, the stirring of spirits as they found sanctuary in the dark of night and in the realm of dreams. It would be a full moon this night. It was an especially enjoyable time to dream, and he looked forward to his visit this evening. He was certain his _da’len_ , too, would enjoy the pleasant awakening of the moon rise. The peace of the empty ramparts could do with her smile, and perhaps he might also find some opportunity to share more knowledge with her.

With a quick step, he hastened across the cold stone, eager to find his pupil and draw her out to the growing dark. He was just about to near the door to the rotunda when the Commander came bursting through, and several soldiers with him.

_Odd._

“Take all of them but one, as many as you can carry. Just leave one for me. And you, wherever you can find some to spare, snatch them up and bring them to the main hall.”

It was an odd order. What could have their stalwart Commander so flustered? He waited, curiously, as the soldiers bustled out of the tower, their arms laden with … were those candle sticks and lanterns? Sufficiently intrigued, he approached the Commander.

Relatively, Cullen was only a few inches taller than he was, and probably only appeared so because of his thick, dingy hair. He may not have been a Templar dog any longer, but the stench of lyrium permeated the room. Though, he noted, it was not as strong as it should have been. While he held no high regard for his former station, he did respect the Commander’s efforts. A true player of the Game he may not be, but a good Commander he was, and dedicated to the protection of his _da’len_ , their Inquisitor. Though he sometimes wanted to, he found it hard to fault him.

“Is there a shortage of wax in the Great Hall?” Solas questioned with a teasing smile.

Cullen turned around quickly, scratching at the back of his neck. “Uh, no. It is simply for … a project.”

Solas arched one brow. “A project? Of what kind?”

“It is a project for the Inquisitor. Perhaps you should ask her,” he offered. His expression was closed, his eyes caged like a good soldier. So then there was private information involved. About Lissa?

He bent slightly at the waist. “I will do that then. I was about to see her anyways regarding our lessons.”

Solas caught him. A slight tremble to his lower lips, the way his eyes flickered to life. He had hit a nerve.

“I think perhaps tonight is a poor night to continue with your lessons. For her sake, I would reschedule.” The man straightened defensively and watched him like a bloodhound, deep-set eyes locked onto him as if he would start using blood magic at any moment.

“Is Lissa well?”

Cullen swallowed, circling to stand behind his desk. “As I said, you would do well to discuss it with her. But perhaps another night.” He crossed his arms about his chest. He would not be getting more information than that.

“Thank you, Commander,” Solas acknowledge, nodding. “You take your role in the protection of our Inquisitor seriously. You perform your duty well.”

His compliment clearly unsettled him. “I – thank you.”

 

Solas slipped through the rotunda and stepped into the Great Hall and found it completely empty. Even Varric was not bunkered down next to the fireplace. Another oddity. The only movement was that of Josephine and Dorian ushering an inordinate amount of candelabras and lanterns to the Inquisitor’s quarters. He watched them curiously from his place in the shadows, until the last load was delivered. Once the pair had retreated to their own corners of Skyhold, he crossed the hall and stood in front of her door. He rapped the door twice with the back of his knuckles.

“Solas? Is that you, _hah’ren_?”

He grinned, pleased that she had sensed his energy well enough to recognize him. “It is, _da’len_. May I enter?” There was a long pause, too long. But her voice eventually called out softly,

“You may.”

He pushed open the door, and shut it behind him. At the top of the stairs, a bright, warm light flooded the room and spilled down the stairs. The room became warmer as he ascended each step. As he crested the flight of stairs, he was stunned at the sight. Candles were planted everywhere, and lanterns hung from the ceiling. They circled the head of her bed as if in preparation of some unusual ritual, and flushed out the shadows of every possible corner. A thick desk piled with books was positioned near the end of the bed, and more candles hovered around it. Strung across the balcony, the doorways, and the ceiling were odd chandeliers, the likes of which he had never seen. Pieces of crystal, glass, and glittering stone were skillfully wired into intricate shapes. As the light passed through or bounced off, it spun the light back in tiny points of light that swam around the room. Some were fashioned like a chime, making soft tinkling sounds that bounced across the stone walls, filling the chamber with a soothing sound.

“ _On dhea'lam*, hah’ren_ ,” Lissa greeted softly as she padded across the stone floor to greet him. A simple robe draped over a silken shift, revealing the softness of the form beneath it. Her hair was loose, freed of the braid she normally wore. It dusted her hips as they swayed with each step. “What brings you here?”

“I had my doubts if you were well. The Commander would not disclose your condition. I thought it wise to confirm it myself. Are you well?” The scent of her became more poignant, masking everything like a heady mist. It clung to everything here, mingled with each scent. It clung to the fiber of the drapes, mixed with scent of melted wax, overcame the night air that wafted in from the balcony. What was worse, the heat of the many candles only intensified it, bringing out the floral overtones and the spicy, earthen heat of her. He took in a slow, measured breath, and exhaled through his nose.

She nodded, but without confidence. “I’m well. For the most part.”

He scowled, advancing towards with a long stride. He reached for her hand, searching the mark for the offence. “Is it the mark? What is wrong?”

Her lips spread in a grin, and she looked at him with warm, honeyed eyes. “I’m not ill, Solas. I’m fine. It’s just …” she slipped her hand from his, skin dragging slowly away from his. She clutched her hand to her chest and turned away from him, looking out towards the balcony.

He took a slow step towards her, near enough for her hair to brush against his forearms. He slipped his right hand into her hair, resting on her shoulder comfortingly. “What is it, _da’len_?”

She bowed her head, and he caught only the slightest hint of her cheek in profile.

“I … I’m going blind.”

 _What?_ The admission was a blow, forcing the air from his lungs. Blind? Lissa? How could this be? He felt her shoulders tremble beneath his hand.

“How long has this been happening?”

She shook her head. “For years. It’s just been getting so bad lately, and…”

How had he not noticed? It all made sense now. He brushed over her peculiarities as endearments, all too quick to accept how easily startled she was, how eager she was to absorb the lessons, how closely she had examined his paintings. It had been his pride that had blinded _him_ , and he had been unable to help her.  
  
He gently urged her, turning her by the shoulders to face him. “Lissa, why did you not tell me?” he sternly asked, his brows dipped in concern. His chest twisted as her eyes began to glisten, her lower lip fighting a tremble. When her voice came, it was rasping and raw.

“I didn’t want to disappoint you. I – I didn’t want you to think less of me.” She snuffled. “I didn’t want to cancel our lessons. I – I’m sorry.”

If she could only know how disappointed he was in himself. How could he have missed this? The weight of the chains increased as another link of guilt was clamped on. His weakness. His mistake. His oversight. His failure.

Her suffering.

He scooped her towards him, gently urging her with his touch. She melted into his shoulder, and silent sobs shook her soft frame.

“ _Ame i’na*, da’len. Ame i’na_ , Lissa.” His hands acted without his permission, sliding one hand at the small of her back and the other at the nape of her neck. He stroked her hair, gently raking his hand over the smooth waves as he calmly and quietly let her cry without another word. Her brokenness, her weakness, drew from him the innate desire to protect and to heal. Protect her as he did as he watched over her nameless face, studying the mark. As he treated her many wounds, bandaged and annointed her broken body. As he sought her out in the Fade, savagely fighting off her most damaging fear. His arms were wrapped around her tightly, clinging to her at the thought. Just as a hint of moisture wicked through his tunic, she took a deep sigh, winding up her resolve. She lifted her head, and her sweet breath escaped in a sigh over tear-stained lips. Her face was pink, her eyelashes spiked with tears.  
  
“ _Garahnen ne son*,”_ he offered with a grin as he pulled away.

She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, looking at him apologetically. “Ma’serranas, Solas. I would like to continue our lessons, if you’re willing to be patient with me.”

“Forgoing your lessons was not a consideration of mine. You’ve performed admirably. Why would that change now?”

She smiled, and the relief washed over her features like a curtain.

“Do the candles help?”

“Yes, it does. Sometimes the light pricks through the blurring darkness, and breaks it up, helping me see. I thought that I might be able to do my studies here, in private, so as not to worry anyone.”

He neared her desk, skimming the open pages. “How has it worked?”

“Tonight? Not as well as I hoped.” She shrugged, drawing her robe farther onto her shoulders. “If only I knew a spell to make the words audible,” she chuckled. “I’d be able to complete your assignments much faster.”

“I can help.”

Her eyes widened, ever hungry for knowledge. “Really? What spell is that?”

He shook his head, amusement tugging at one corner of his lip. “Not a spell. I shall read to you.”

She paused, mouth agape. “I – I think I would very much like that.”

He nodded curtly. “Then it is settled. Anytime you need assistance, I will gladly read it for you.” He took a moment to observe the room again, watch as the dancing lights swirled over the ceiling. “Is this your skilled handiwork?”

She graciously accepted the compliment. “It’s from the pieces of glass and such I find while we’re out, or while I’m exploring Skyhold. Each one is from a different place, and so I take care to make the shape and arrangement mean something. It’s just a silly hobby to fill what free time I have,” she chuckled nervously.

“A beautiful craft. You are a rare individual, Inquisitor.”

She turned away at his compliment, looking out towards the balcony. The twilight had deepened into a dull grey, and the hint of stars began to wink in the brimming darkness.

“Ah! I am reminded of my original purpose. Come,” he asked, slipping out onto the balcony. “The full moon is my favorite time to dream. The spirits are restless on these nights, and the billowing energy is intoxicating.” She carefully padded out onto the balcony, and he could feel her mana reaching out in front of her, sensing the way.  
  
They watched together as the silver orb rose in the sky above them. The moon’s bold face shone down, full and bright, onto the icy tops of the mountains, gilding each cut of the rock in smooth silver. Stars twinkled overhead like diamonds strewn across a velvet sky with streaks of silvery clouds cutting across like bold brush strokes. It was beautiful. And most likely, she could not see it.

He turned to look towards his pupil to find her face uplifted toward the night, eyes pressed closed and a peaceful grin on her full lips. The moon washed out her skin, turning it to marble. The wind tugged on her loose hair, and it undulated gracefully. She drank in the evening without sight, and relished it blindly.

“It’s beautiful,” she remarked quietly, regretfully breaking the peaceful stillness.

“Yes,” he replied, dragging his eyes away from her and back to the evening sky. “It is.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by FenxShiral
> 
> On dhea'lam = Good evening.  
> Ame i’na = I am here.  
> Garahnen ne son = All will be well.


	22. Western Approach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> "Checkmate"

The Western Approach was her least favorite place to be. Sand-strewn wind lashed at her face, obliterating what precious little vision she had. Her energy reserves were dismally low, having to exert so much mana to the effort of seeing. The unbearable heat rose to her face and a salty sweat ran into her eyes. She could not rub away the burning, or else risk some of the sharp sand cutting in. Each step that was not on searing rock was through sand, unsteady and shifting. Sand in her chaffing in her boots, scratching at her eyes, sticking to her sweat, peppered through her hair. Her muscles burned with the extra effort, her calves tied up in knots of dehydration. Not even the caves held refuge. They were the worst, like dark ovens of boiling heat. They were throats of dragons, breathing out hot, humid breath that sucked the air from her lungs. Hunger had been scared away and replaced with a hard knot deep in her gut that not even water could touch. She must have looked as miserable as she felt, for each of her companions continually plagued her with questions, “Are you okay?” “Do you need anything?” And try as she might to appear to feel better, she could not wrangle up enough care about her appearance. This god-forsaken ground was a wasteland, and she never wanted to set foot in it again. Exhausted, hot, and cranky, Lissa cared very little for … anything.

She could hear heavy footsteps crunch in the sand next to her. “You okay, Lissa?” Varric asked, a wry sound to his gravelly voice.

She did not hold back a deep scowl. “Oh, I’m perfectly happy to be traipsing about in a burning sea of dry, sharp dirt. It’s fantastic. Did you see how interesting that last rock was? So unique. I can’t _wait_ till we see the next.”

Varric, tactful as ever, snorted at her demise. “You look like shit.”

She grimaced, and had not doubt in her mind that it was _ugly_. She felt ugly, and full of ugliness. _Everything_ about this place lacked any form of beauty. It sapped all of the joy from her bones and evaporated it into the oppressive heat, where it could never be recovered.

“Yikes,” Varric raised up both arms in a surrender, and it was strangely satisfying to be obviously _unpleasant_. “We definitely need to make camp soon, before you open a rift and throw us all into the Fade.”

“Was that in the realm possibilities? I hadn’t realized.”

“Don’t get any ideas, Shortcake,” he shook his wide head, voice emphatic.

“I think perhaps I’ll just throw _myself_ in. I know from experience the Fade is a far more pleasant than … than _this_.” Her lips curled in disgust. She could not even grasp a word to suit her absolute distaste.

“Sharp stinging, bright but dark. Grasping, gasping, grating. Dust … everything to dust. Joy drying, bones crumbling, everything turns to dust. ‘ _I hate this place. I hate everything about it. I never want to come, never again._ ’”

Cole was trying to help, she knew, and somewhere she _cared_. But that part must have been buried in the sand far too many miles ago. She rounded on Cole with a sharp, wordless look. Behind his shaggy bangs, his sullen eyes went wide. He must have understood, or heard her thoughts (as annoying as that was right now), for he slowed and slunk to the rear of the pack.

“ _Lissa_ ,” Varric dared to scold. “You know the kid is trying to help.”

“What’s the matter, doll?” Marian Hawke cooed all too saccharin-sweetly. “Can’t take the heat?”

Oh, she was beginning to hate that woman. The Champion of Kirkwall. Varric talked her up so much, she imagined a heroine of unfathomable self-sacrifice, an unshakeable resolve for duty, and a sterling personality. What she found was not _that_. She was a wild-woman, laughing at her misery, teasing her at every opportunity. Everything was a joke, and she did not feel a little envious at how she drew the rest of her companions with such effortless congeniality. Every night, everyone flocked around Hawke to be regaled by some wild story, obviously embellished with every exaggeration imaginable. It didn’t help that Varric punctuated the story with his own spin, only turning his glazed eyes, wide as a Mabari pup, from his idol to add the extra measure of flourish in his own style. Even now, she must have quipped another joke. The hearty laughter of Bull and Blackwall carried to the front. She should not have turned, should not have acquiesced to the faint curiosity. For when she turned, she was met with a smug grin pulling on Marian’s darkly rouged lips, and Lissa knew, somehow, it had been at her expense. Oh, she wanted to wipe that _stupid_ smudge off her smug face.  

She growled, and pushed forward, separating herself as best she could from them. All of them. Why did it have to be here? She would wring Corypheus’ neck _herself_ for making her hap upon this wasteland.

“So, how’s your faith holding up? Andraste seems to have left you out in the ass-end of the desert,” Marian snorted, strolling non-chalantly next to her. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look like a withering flower,” she pressed.

Lissa’s eyes flashed, and her remaining mana flared within her veins.

The warrior pursed her lips smugly. “Ooh, there’s _fight_ in this mouse, Varric,” she patronized with a snide smirk. “You always knew how to pick ‘em.”

“Hawke,” Varric grumbled through his teeth in a warning. “I wouldn’t push it if I were you. Magic and you don’t get along so well if I remember.”

She scoffed. “Please. It wasn’t just magic. It was Bethany and Merrill that were the problem.” She groaned, her eyes wincing as if a headache suddenly overtook her. “And don’t get me started on Anders. Besides, I don’t think I have to worry about this one. Mouse doesn’t have it in her.” She challenged. She had the nerve to cross her arms about her muscular form, looking down on her condescendingly. It would be _so easy_ to pick up her hulking, brutish form with a thought and fling her face-first into the red sands. She felt the magic surging, thrumming to her fingertips awaiting a command, giving her thoughts potential.

Instead, she took a sharp, deep breath through her nostrils and let it out through clenched teeth. “Why are you here, Marian?”

“To save your asses, that’s why. You _need_ me.”

“No,” Lissa corrected with a sneer. “Varric, whom I trust, directed us to you. We now have met your Warden contact Stroud, and your usefulness wanes every time you open your mouth. You are only here because I _allow_ it,” she added sharply. “Varric, restrain your _friend_ before I give you a _leash_.” Lissa stormed away, ignoring the stabbing pangs of her muscles as she forced herself ahead, anywhere away from her.

She was not looking forward to camp.

*    *    *

It was finally nightfall, and the searing heat of the sun had sunk below the horizon, giving them a small reprieve. Most of her comrades had gathered around a fire towards the center of camp, but Lissa had no intention of spending more time than was absolutely necessary with Hawke. Marian and Varric were entertaining again, their audience clinging to their words and their drinks with equal attention. The numbers of rapt listeners had increased each night. Bull, Sera, Blackwall, Krem and the Chargers, as well as a handful of soldiers crowded the small fire, and the old friends relished the chance to spin their beautiful truth-peppered exaggerations. Several heads whipped back, bellowing laughter. Even if Lissa admitted a passing curiosity for the tale (which she most certainly did not admit), she had not earned the right to sit with her friends tonight. With time to reflect on the day, she found herself regretting her actions, no matter how justified they had felt at the time. She had been abrasive and rude, as unpleasant as their dreadful surroundings. They would not even want her company. By her tent she remained, with her thoughts and a stinging sunburn her only company.

As she swallowed the last bite of tough dried meat, she reached into her pack and grabbed a familiar, comforting spine of a book, Fade and Spirits Mysterious by the feel of it. She ran her finger down the spine, feeling each divot and bump of its surface. A dent in the lower left hand corner, gouge in the top half of the spine. _Yes, definitely Fade and Spirits Mysterious_.  Opening it tenderly, she brushed her palm over the page in a gentle caress, but the words and paper would not be known to her tonight. Her eyes still stung, irritated from the harsh desert winds and rough with dehydration. A longing sigh dragged from her lungs, and she shut the book, dropping it in her pack.

“That was an impressive display of sass earlier, Inquisitor.” She couldn’t see Solas’ face, but she could hear the smirk playing on his lips. She also did not miss his use of her title. He only called her by her office when he was teasing or exceedingly serious. The sand shifted as he sat next to her. “I’m impressed.”

“Well, I do learn from the best.” She watched, staring expectantly, as a sly, cockeyed grin curled crookedly across his full lips. A comfortable silence settled between the pair, and somehow, simply his presence alone was a salve, soothing her irritated emotions. Despite her rather egregious behavior, and a sinking suspicion no one wanted her presence, he had sought her out. And here he stayed. It was still a terrible place, this western waste, but with him here, her dear _hah’ren_ , it was starting to feel a good deal more comfortable. A lot more like…

_Home?_

Her mind questioned its own conclusion. How would she know what home was like? Was this warm, comfortable feeling what it meant, or was it something else? He must have been gauging her mood, for did not speak until the last grips of tension slipped from her frame.

“You know, she was not wrong about one thing,” he started, and immediately she knew he was referring to Marian Hawke. She forced down a grimace. He leaned forward, eyes meeting hers with an intense, gentle sincerity. “You do appear withered, a flower struggling in this desert without rain.”

Her heart did a strange flip in her chest. A serrated chuckled lurched uncomfortably over her lips. “Well, perhaps I should pray for rain.” She wrung her hands together as she stared at her lap. “I apologize for being so rude today. I should probably apologize to the rest, shouldn’t I?”

“You could, though I doubt it would be appreciated by _everyone_.”

That much was true. Even if she apologized, her actions would only continue to be criticized by _her_. Still, she could not shake the feeling that it was necessary, needed, not just for her comrades but for her guilty conscience. She sighed. “I know. But I was wrong. Her actions, no matter how crass, or just plain annoying, should not dictate me.”

His grey-blue eyes held hers, and for a moment, she felt oddly exposed as his gaze searched and sifted through her soul. “You are an unusual human, Lissa. Go then, _da’len_. I will be here when you wish to talk.”

She took a deep breath, and built up her nerves. She parted with a nod, singularly focused on the campfire. She neared it slowly, cautiously, her mind rehearsing what she would say. _I’ve acted wrongly, to all of you. I’m sorry. No, ugh. It’s so pathetic. Will they even want to see me? Maybe I should just …_ she considered turning back, curling up in her tent and sleeping it off.

“Herald!” a bawdy voice called. “Come to hear another riveting tale of this terrible duo?” Marian reached out, encircling Varric with one arm and pressing her fisted hand into the crown of his head. Despite how uncomfortable it looked, Varric seemed completely at ease. No, he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself.

“I’m fine, thank you. Actually,” she turned, gaze grazing the eyes of her comrades, “I actually wanted to apologize. I’ve been unusually prickly, and none of you deserve that. Will you forgive me?”

The pairs of eyes staring at her, though friends, were suddenly too much to handle. She stared into the fire, hoping anyone would say _something_ quickly before she regretted it.

“It’s hot, yeh?” Sera commented, plucking at the corner of a fingernail. “This place is shite. I’d be worried if you _weren’t_ an arse,” she so graciously summarized as she tossed a hangnail into the flames. Despite the rather coarse assessment, it was oddly comforting.

“Thanks … I think.”

“I think what Sunshine is trying to say is, ‘we forgive you.’” Varric grinned crookedly.

“Everyone has their rough days they’d rather forget. Get some rest,” Blackwall insisted. “It’s not like this place is going anywhere in the morning.”

“And believe me, Mouse,” Marian started, an unusually somber expression on her angular features, “you aren’t going to like what you see tomorrow. Best be prepared. Hate to see you shrivel up. You’re sort of our last chance.”

“Don’t think about it too much, Boss,” Bull shooed her off. “We’re with you.”

She grinned, grateful for their graciousness. Well, at least most of them were gracious. She left with a bow and turned, her steps becoming faster, faster to return to her tent, to _him._ She rounded her tent, eager to resume their easy fellowship, but he was not there. She slowly deflated, her shoulders slumping and her brows pursing in confusion.

“Solas?” she questioned, turning around and looking throughout the camp, but nothing but blurred shapes moved about, and none of them _felt_ like him. Oddly, she couldn’t _feel_ his presence anywhere. With a slight weight of disappointment, she gathered up her bag and books and slipped inside the tent.

Why did he leave? Where did he go? She had wanted to ask him so many things, prepare herself for what terrible demons they might find. She had stared at the top of her tent for so long, just lying there still in the dark. But these questions would not leave her be. She had to find him. If she could just have a few questions answered, then perhaps her mind would quiet enough to dream.

With a final resolve, she flung back the thin blanket, rose from her bedroll, and ducked out of the tent.

 

*    *    *

 

Solas pondered the day, prepared the pieces of his mind for the upcoming battle. Which pawns needed moved to secure his goals? What moves would the enemy take? As he thought, to organize his thoughts, his hands moved with ease, sketching out layouts for the next portion of the rotunda. Whatever happened, he knew he needed the orb. It was the only way to free his People, free them from his misguided benevolence. His strokes became more fervent as he absently sketched, each strike of the page keeping tempo with his thoughts. His eyes bored into the page, but he did not see it. He reached out, smudging the strokes with the pad of his thumb. _But **she** is different_ , he reminded himself. _Nothing at all like the humans of which I learned. Perhaps if she is different, then maybe …_  The piece of charcoal snapped beneath his too-harsh touch. With a puff of breath, he blew away the fragments of charcoal from the parchment, revealing what his feverish strokes had made.

 His eyes narrowed, studying the work his busy hands had made. A familiar face, soft and warm, stared back at him from the cold page. Bold, sharp strokes made up the fragile curve of her cheeks, and hard lines invoked the silken softness of her russet waves. These fractured, polarizing opposites so perfectly matched her soul. He was tempted to be smug at his own skill, absent-minded as it had been, but his eyes roved the intimate portrait. How odd his fingers should find her as his subject.

“Solas?” a soft voice questioned carefully. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve had some questions that wouldn’t let me be. I just had to find you.” She was dressed in typical Ferelden fashion, thick brocades and a pelt of fur around the collar. A leather belt cinched at her waist, setting off the flare of her hips.

He smiled, shutting the sketchbook closed and slipping it into his rucksack. “I can see that,” he punctuated with a raised eyebrow. “What is it you wish to know?”

She stepped over the brush surrounding his clearing, carefully examining the ground for wards. He hid a grin. “I thought perhaps you might help me prepare for Adamant. I’m more than a little concerned about what we might find there.”

“I cannot say for certain what the Wardens are dealing with, but I can sense a great deal of demonic activity.”

She nodded, curls swinging in her face. “Yes, I feel it, too. They push and push, bunching up against the veil in a violent torrent waiting to gush from the nearest tear.”

“A tear, I fear, the Wardens are trying to create.”

“Yes,” she sighed.

He watched her mull over the possibilities, the same way she so intently stared at the map of her friends her mind had made. He envisioned her looking over that map now, eyes seeing lines and patterns between their members, working out how to keep them safe.

“You continue to surprise me. Come with me, _da’len_. Let us talk somewhere more interesting than this.”

Gone was the warm evening of the Approach, replaced by a dry chill and snow-covered day. His feet pressed into the snow with a crunch as he led her through the center of their old camp.

Her brows searched, looking over everything with a childish confusion. “Haven? Why here?” she questioned, keeping pace close to his side. The background chatter and flapping of flags snapping in the stiff breeze filled the air.

“It is familiar. Haven will always be important to you.”

He led her through the camp, keeping track of her warmth next to his side as they walked. He walked slowly, savoring the time spent with his unusual pupil. He guided her below the central building, down to the cells, where she first opened her eyes at him. He could still see her lying there on that thin excuse for a cot, her face twisted in pain, her body arched in agony as the mark tore at her soul. And once her body had lost its will to strive against the pain, she slumped back, drenched in a cold sweat, limp and unmoving. He remembered looking down at her freckled face and human form, wondering what manner of mortal could fight for so long. “I sat beside you, studying the mark while you slept.”

“I owe you a great debt. You were very kind to me,” she admitted in shy thanks, a hand reaching up to tuck a curl behind her ear. “You always have been.” Her freckle-dusted cheeks flushed a delicate pink.

“In truth, I did very little. I ran every test I could imagine, searched the Fade, yet found nothing. Cassandra suspected duplicity. She threatened to have me executed as an Apostate if I did not produce results.”

Her lips split in a wide smile that brightened her entire face. “Yes, she’s like that with everyone.”

“Yes!” A chuckle bubbled freely from his chest, and she chuckled in return. It was always so easy to talk with her. Their exchanges were always free and enlightening, but here, even more so. He was in his element, and confidence and comfort were abundant. To share that with her was … different. He felt different about himself.

With a thought, they were outside again, walking about the through the center of camp. His eyes watched her carefully as she strode easily alongside him. To think that she could have stayed asleep, trapped forever in the fade while her body wasted away here. A painful twist gripped his abdomen. Now that she was here, now that he had known her, he would hate to see such a lovely soul leave this world. But would he have cared then? Without knowing her name, or even the color of her eyes, would he have cared the same way?

His voice was low as he held back emotion. “You were never going to wake up. And how could you? A mortal, trapped physically in the Fade?” He turned to face her, baring a rare truth about his emotions. “I was frightened and frustrated. The spirits I might have consulted had been driven away by the Breach. And, although I wished to help, I had no faith in Cassandra, or she in me. I was ready to flee.”

Why was he admitting this to her? Why did what she think mattered?

“Where would you go to escape the grasp of the Breach? It threatened everything.”

He grinned. Ever curious, ever questioning, his _da’len_. She was a student at heart, and it pleased him more than it should. Even now, to think that she would pursue him _here? Fascinating_. Somewhat smugly, he told a half truth, part of him wishing her brilliancy would work it out on her own, the other cautious and fearful of it. “Someplace far away where I might research a way to repair it before its effects reached me.”

“Such a place exists?”

His eyes held hers steadfast for a moment as he considered his reply. “I never said it was a good plan.”

She laughed. A melodic laugh that was, in a way, at his expense. But it made him smile just the same.

“But you’re here now. What happened?”

“I watched as the rifts expanded, grew. I resigned myself to flee, and then…” The scene changed back to that fateful moment. He grabbed her wrist, thrust it towards the rift, and surprisingly, it had closed. He was tempted to let the memory play out longer, watch her wide, golden eyes take him in for the first time, tentatively and with wonder. “You sealed it with a gesture.”

“Really, it was more of _your_ doing, if I recall.”

He chuckled. “Perhaps. But right then, I felt the whole world change.”

 “Felt?” she asked with a challenging raise to her eyebrow as she sidled up close up him. The warmth of her radiated through his tunic and teased his cool skin beneath. “Am I to assume the secretive Apostate possesses _feelings_?” She nudged him teasingly with her elbow, looking up at him from behind long lashes.

Carefully, he measured her words, her posture. She was so different to him now. Before, she was the quiet victim of his mistake. And now she was a force of her own, with unmatched kindness and a curiosity that mirrored his. A crooked grin pulled at the corner of his lips. “It has been known to happen from time to time.”

Her eyes sparkled with daring and were rimmed with a dark intensity he had not yet seen. It sent the back of his neck to prickling, but it was nothing compared to the raw sincerity of her tone when she prodded in a near whisper, “Times such as …?” Her eyes were clear as glass, and for a moment a spark of her soul was bared like the flash of a gem. As quickly as it was there, it was gone. Perhaps he had been seeing things all along.

“Being set aflame by my own spell is one such occasion.”

She nearly doubled over in laugh. “Yes! I imagine that’s one feeling you’d rather not relive.”

He grinned, his chest settling in a comfortable satisfaction. “I know you are worried about tomorrow. I trust that remembering what you have already overcome will aid you when you need it most.”

Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Adamant … the desert. Wait,” she shook her head, confused, “how are we at Haven? Haven was destroyed. This can’t be real.”

He forced down a knowing grin. “That is a matter of debate. Best discussed after…” He could not resist the urge to impress her further. He bent next to her, an amused curve to his lips as he whispered, “…you _wake up_.”

 

*    *    * 

 

Lissa bolted awake, sitting up from her cot with a start. Her face was flushed with heat, her heart pounding madly between her breasts. What exactly had happened? Suddenly, his voice was whispering in her head, smooth and low, and a wild heat blazed across her chest, spreading its hot fingers to her face, her fingers. A low quiver stirred in her gut, and suddenly a cold shiver replaced the raging heat, and her skin broke out in ripples of gooseflesh.

What _did_ happen?

She had only wanted to talk, to ask him a few questions, but then … the truth of it hit her like on oncoming spell. The Fade! They had met in the Fade? It was a place only they could meet together, and he had obliged. He took her to where they first met, told her things she had never heard before, about _himself_. He was different there, somehow. Freer, more open. She had seen it in his eyes, little glimpses of who he really was teasing her, daring her to know him.

A long sigh stole from her chest as the pounding pulse ebbed from her ears. Despite the heat from her face, she could feel the temperature outside the tent rising. Morning was approaching, and they had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Solas' Sketch"
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> 
> SO! I finally got around to making a playlist. I hope it inspires you, too! Not included are all of the OSTs I listen to as well, such as Oblivion, DA:I (duh), as well as LOTR. 
> 
> http://asthedaydiesfanfic.tumblr.com/post/127200010910/solasmancer-playlist
> 
> Enjoy! <3 <3 <3 
> 
> P.S. I hope this chapter was interesting enough!


	23. The Trick of Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank so many of you for your AMAZINGLY kind comments. I've also enjoyed getting to chat with you about little things, too. If you're keen on it, feel free to ask me things either here in the comments OR by sending me an ask on my tumblr (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/asthedaydiesfanfic). You'll lots of Solas and little extras I may not post right away here. (Dun dun DUN!) 
> 
> And I'm continually surprised by the amount of love this is getting. So, I've decided that in thanks for your loyalty and support, once I get to 200 kudos, I will share a special rewrite of a chapter from Solas' POV as a gift to all of you lovelies. <3 
> 
> I really appreciate your support and it really motivates me to keep going, especially amidst all the unfortunate hate I've gotten recently about Solas x Trevelyan or my slowburn. I'm not asking for sympathy, just hey, that's life. ^_^ I only say to let you know how much MORE special it makes your lovin'! 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

Dark, swirling and twisting, the painful fluidity of nothingness surrounded her, drenched in the sickening control of a powerful demon. All around, wispy dark tendrils reached out, whispering dark words and naming shapeless fears. This was the setting the mark had chosen for them, and now they had to battle their way back in their enemy’s lair.

Towering, screeching, the monstrous demon blocked their path to the physical realm. Its clawed leg reached out, nearly crushing her to paste.

“Watch out!” Varric called, only to have his voice cut short in a gurgling fit of blood. A long, black tendril protruded through his chest, and a river of blood ran down and bubbled from his agape mouth. She could not move, fixated on the gory sight.

“Varric!” Marian screamed, rushing in with abandon towards their Dwarven ally. Her muscular arms swung her broadsword, high then low, and around in a deadly arc, ripping apart the fearlings as she cut a deadly path to him. With trembling hands, the warrior reached out to his face, cupping it tenderly. “Varric…”

“Boss, look out!” the Qunari called, charging in headlong to block a deadly swipe from the demon. It missed, but another leg with pincer-like claws reached out and grabbed him, catching him around the shoulders. She watched, helplessly, as Bull strained against the vice grip, veins protruding from his leathery skin. His eyes met hers, and with a sideways grin, he added, “So long, Boss.” She turned her head, and a sickening crunch was followed by the sound of splattering blood, and some of it flecked on her face.

She reached up to wipe it away, but her hands were covered in it. Blood, everywhere. Her stomach lurched, her mind wracked with numbing pain. She wanted to scream, but nothing came out. Her voice was frozen. There was something wrong with her head. Her hands were hot with the heat of it. With sickening _plip-plop-plips_ , it dropped onto her boots. Where had it come from?

She looked beyond her blood-soaked palms to see a garish battle field littered with the bodies of her friends, her comrades. Inquisition soldiers carpeted the dark landscape of the Fade, portions of their face angled up out of a river of blood. And strewn throughout were the broken bodies of those she cared about. Leliana, twisted and contorted in a gruesome manner, a shower of arrows pierced the bloodied body of her Commander. Josephine lay gagged and blindfolded, a twisted braid of rope around her pretty neck. Her stomach heaved in convulsions, and yet never emptied. Every emotion, every scream of her mind, was shut down, her body numb and unresponsive. She wanted to rip a scream from her throat until it was bloodied and raw, but she could not even force a tear from her eyes. She looked down to her hands, suddenly clean and bare, rid of blood. Where the mark was, a terrifying brand looked up at her instead. The mark of Tranquility.

A crack of thunder startled her awake, and a clammy perspiration broke into a running sweat down her temples. She panted, desperately trying to slow the hammering pulse beneath her ribcage. Her throat was rough and raw. She hoped she hadn’t been screaming again. For three nights now the nightmare persisted. Dark circles pillowed her eyes, and her skin was sallow and lifeless. Maybe after today, she could finally get some rest.

Slowly, she drug her feet over the edge, pressing her feet slowly on the floor. With heavy steps, she padded towards the armoire and stared at the long robes Josephine had laid out for her. Black brocade in a simple cut was trimmed in a thick lace. Her bright hair would be covered by a hood of lace, her mark covered by a pair of black satin gloves. Nothing bright, nothing that would draw attention would be appropriate.

Not at a funeral.

Her body would not find an appetite, she knew. Not until it was over. The dead weight in her stomach was heavy and filled her with a weighty tightness.

Skyhold was unusually quiet, and even the gossiping Orlesians that fluttered about in the Great Hall were gone, no doubt the seriousness of the matter too heavy for their delicate palettes. Her feet shuffled numbly, dragging along the rest of her until she managed to hap upon the war room. Their voices were muffled, but somehow her befuddled mind made sense of their words, or perhaps it was their gestures and expressions that communicated to her. She followed them, Cullen leading the way, as they rounded the central courtyard and slipped outside the gates. A thick drizzle pelted their heads and soaked through their clothes in a slow tempo. It was to be an intimate service, with only a few gathered round the pyre. She kept her gaze low, but recognized a few of the boots as they shambled past. Cassandra’s heavy boots, Blackwall’s wide leather stirrups, the delicate satin pumps of Josephine. Many of her friends had chosen to remain at Skyhold, but they would mourn in their own way. Sera was locked up in the tavern, and Bull stayed to keep her company. No doubt Krem and the Chargers would celebrate the life they wished to honor here in their own fashion A dark pair of leather boots with thick soles caked with mud passed by, steps heavy and downtrodden.

 _Varric_.

He did not say a word. It tore into her, a rip in her already torn heart. Her chest threatened to collapse on itself, and her breath turned to dust. A tear burned its way to her eyes and left a hot trail down her cheek. She wanted to say so many things, sputter pathetic apologies as she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and cry into his hair. Her chest fluttered, her breath serrated and uneasy as she fought back a torrent of tears. He thought it was her fault. _She_ had let him down. A terrible weight crushed her chest.

 _It should have been me_.

Flashes of memory, dark and tangible, rose to her consciousness.

_A giant demon, the largest she had ever seen, guarded their only escape. But they didn’t have to defeat it, just distract it. If they could draw away its attention, then perhaps they could escape. Marian, who had so drastically changed in the heat of battle, who had stayed to protect her troops and fought with impressive skill and stamina, looked in the face of the demon with barred teeth and burning eyes. Her gaze flashed at Lissa, only wavering to catch a glimpse of Varric from the corner of her eye._

_“You have to go!” Marian insisted. “Get him out of here.”_

_“But, Hawke –“_

_“Go!” She demanded. “Tell him …” her hard eyes softened, and shined with a subtle glistening, “…he knows.”_

She looked down, hoping the tears would fall silently and unnoticed on the ground. Half-bare feet passed her then turned to plant themselves slightly behind her. _Solas_. She begged her _hah’ren_ for some spell, _anything_ , to fix her mistake.

_She stumbled from the Fade, emerging back into Adamant in an unceremonious heap. They accounted for everyone - everyone except Marian. The look on Varric’s face wounded her, and worsened when he turned his back and walked away. With desperate, trembling fingers, she reached out to her tutor, gripping his tunic as she pleaded, tears streaming down her face. He looked at her soberly, a pained wince narrowing his eyes, and shook his head._

_It wasn’t possible._

Leliana’s voice, clear and bright, rang out a simple eulogy in honor of the missing Champion. Sharp sniffling drew her attention, and she caught Varric wiping his thick glove across his face. Tentatively, she dared to reach out. She hesitated, drawing her hand back. If he rejected her, could she bare it? But if she didn’t try, could she stand herself? With slow determination, she reached out and placed her hand gently on his trembling shoulder. He did not respond, but he did not flinch. And so they stood, quietly sobbing to themselves as the fire burned and crackled in the rain.

Soaked and chilled, she waited with a false stalwart exterior as each passed by, returning to their duties. She was the Inquisitor, and she had to be strong for the rest of them. And for a moment, she wished she had half the strength of Marian. Each one passed by, some with nods of acknowledgement, a few with a pat of encouragement, but most were serious and quiet. Once each had filed past, she took up the rear of their processional, slogging behind in the soggy mud. The uncomfortable squish and the damp of her clothes were welcome feelings. At least it was something besides the dead numbness, blotting out everything but pain.

She forced her head high as she climbed the stairs towards the center of Skyhold, lips trembling beneath the veiled lace hood. She bit her lip to keep from trembling, but too hard. The metallic tang of blood stung the tip of her tongue. Somehow, she made it to the refuge of her room. Dirty, damp, and depressed as she was, she flung herself, mud and all, onto her bed and sobbed. Why? Why couldn’t she save her? Why could she have strong enough to save all of them?

 _I failed_.

Her body convulsed in ugly sobs, thick sobs that choked her, blinded her with hot tears. Between the cries that wracked her body, clawed at her throat, a smooth, scholarly voice calmly shushed.

“ _Da’len_ …”

When had he entered her room? How long had he been there? She did not know, and frankly did not care. She wanted to suffocate herself in her pillow and drown in her tears. Her chest ached like nothing she had ever experienced, and she wanted to claw out her heart to make it stop. She _saw_ the look on Varric’s face when she did not come back. She _knew_ the hidden meaning behind Marian’s lingering gaze, and yet she had permitted her to stay. She should have _fought_ for that, for _them_.

The bed near her knees depressed, and her heart skipped as a warm hand firmly and reassuringly rested on her shoulder.

“It’s my fault,” she sobbed, her voice brittle and croaky. “It’s all my fault.” The last part was muffled as she buried her head back into her pillow.

“No, _da’len_ , it is the fault of war.” His voice seemed distant, as if recalling a memory, and his tone was flat with safe experience. “But you must bear the consequences. Such is the lot of any who seek to change the world.” His hand began to rub small, comforting circles along her shoulder blade. “You must not blame yourself.” She did not see the shadow pass over his eyes or notice how his shoulders drooped with an invisible burden.

A ragged intake of air burned her throat. “But I saw … I knew … I wasn’t sure before, but now…”

She understood now the knowing glances the two shared, the free way they interacted with such abandon. Marian’s last words to her rang out in her head: _“Tell him … he knows.”_

 _She loved him_.

The small circles widened, roaming the better half of her upper back. “You cannot know every consequence, not matter how you may try. We can only make the best of them, and never stop fighting for our cause.” He was voice sincere, impassioned and yet tinged with a subtle pain.

She sighed, and slowly her mind shifted from focusing on the raw stinging in her chest to being spellbound by the burning trails of his touch.

“You’ve not been sleeping well,” he remarked plainly. His touch grew bolder, stronger, bunching up the thick fabric as his hands roamed over the slope of her shoulders, fingers gently stroking the column of her neck. Her stomach burned and quivered, but she dare not move lest this were a dream and shatter it with waking.

“No,” she admitted as she cleared her throat. “How did you know?” _Oh, Maker, not the screaming_. She was glad she still had on the veil to hide the embarrassed flush. If he had heard her, then who else knew of the night terrors?

“I watch you as you walk Fade. Your mind is clouded and weary, and draws the attention of ill-meaning spirits. I’ve driven them off, but not always soon enough.”

Slowly, she sat up, her eyes narrowing on him. He did not remove his hand from her shoulder. “You watch me?” His eyes shifted ever so slightly, but his touch did not flinch, neither did he move it. Her pulse thumped, quicker and quicker the longer he held her gaze.

“I would be a poor instructor who left his pupil to wander the Fade, tormented by spirits he could easily dispel.”

Suddenly, she noticed the absence of heat from her candles, the missing warm light pulsing with the dancing flames. Instead, everything was a rich dark, a few silver torches flickering with cool veilfire breaking the solid streak. The swirling green-blue light reflected around the room, but – no – it was not her room at all. The walls were now glittering rough stone that twinkled and winked in delicate sparkles, or smooth, silky patches of minerals that shone like water. At the head of her bed, a section was smoothed and painted in fresco style. An imposing figure made of charcoal greys stared back with ruby red eyes, a disc of a green held between its hands. Her eyes looked up, and a little gasp slipped from her lips. Above her was the wide open sky. The atmosphere blended seamlessly with the top of the cave, the silky black littered with shards of stars. Her eyes narrowed carefully as she studied it in awe. No, not the sky. It was painted the deepest black and every star was a delicate crystal. Each must have been enchanted in some way, for they pulsed with their own clear light, twinkling delicately above. She had never been in a cave she liked, each too damp, too suffocating. Too many she had seen had become a tomb. But this – this was no cave. This was a _sanctuary_. It was raw and natural and as beautiful as any palace.

She stood, not noticing how his hand reach out as if lamenting the loss of her warmth. Mouth agape, she circled the den, relishing the smooth obsidian beneath her bare feet.

 _Bare feet_?

She looked down, but her suddenly bare feet were not the most shocking change. Gone were the heavy robes of mourning and in its place a shift of smoky blue silks and chiffons. The hem swirled luxuriously around her ankles with each step and felt like a silken mist against her skin. The neckline was simple and scooped to reveal her shoulders and an almost daring amount of décolleté. Sheer charcoal sleeves, impossibly light, draped her arms and cuffed around her wrists with smooth, silky cuffs. It was the most enjoyable thing she had ever worn. It was practically wrapped around her, embracing her soothingly. It was like a dream.

_A dream…_

“This … is the Fade?” she turned slowly, eyes narrowing on the person that looked so very much like her instructor. His normal, simple tunic was gone in favor of a jerkin that appeared to be woven in gold threads, an intricate design of leaves and vines swirling across the brocade. Draped over one shoulder was a heavy pelt, wolf she imagined, and it tucked into his leather belt. Real or imagined, he looked … _dashing._   “Then is it actually _you_ , are you an effigy of my imagination?”

He smiled smugly, and her gut twisted with the uncomfortable intensity in his eyes. “You cannot be sure?”

“I … prefer to reserve immediate judgement where the Fade is concerned.” she nervously replied, careful of the timid wavering of her voice as he watched her intently, still seated comfortably on the edge of the bed. It was an …  _inspiring_  sight.

“A wise attitude.” He straightened proudly. She never quite realized how tall he could be, especially compared to other Elves she had met. He stood, judging by the quiet creak of the bedframe. She followed the sound of his light footsteps, nearer and nearer. She dared a glance, regretting it instantly. He padded quietly towards her with his hands folded behind his back, and his lips thinned in a predacious grin. Circling her, he studied at her sideways in a look that was curious and gentle. It was an unsettling combination with his predatory gait. “What were you like, before the anchor?” His voice was soft, and spiked with genuine curiosity. “Has it changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your … _spirit_?”

Looking at him sidelong, she answered slowly, “I don’t think so, not the way you’re asking. Have I changed since I’ve received this mark?” she sighed, her voice slipping out like the whisper of a ghost. “Immeasurably.” She clutched the mark to her chest, thinking back to her days in the Circle. “I’d only wanted to help, to make a difference if I could. And then I walked into Corypheus’ plans. I remember the smell, astringent, sharp and sickening sweet like dying flesh. It was the screams that lead me to the room. I used my staff and unlocked the door and … well,” she chuckled, dropping her arm down to her side. “I guess you know that now, too. My mind has changed, certainly. I’ve learned so much, and I want to learn more. My morals have been tested and my ideals reshaped.” She paused, considering her teacher’s odd question. It must have been a test. “Were I to answer honestly, I think my spirit has changed, too. I’m me, of course, but … I’m stronger now, and yet at the same time I feel more vulnerable than ever. I don’t know how else to describe it.” She chuckled nervously, shifting her weight between her feet. She looked aside, lashes fluttering in a tizzy, no longer able to endure the curious, conflicted gaze of his grey-blue eyes that pierced her. “I’m not certain I understood your question.”

His eyes softened on her, and a trail of goosebumps broke out along her spine. “It was a … satisfactory answer.”

“Why do you ask?”

“You have shown a wisdom that I have not seen since …” he paused, rethinking his words, “since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade. You are not what I expected.”

She titled her head in a question. “I hope I haven’t disappointed you. What did you expect?”

He hesitated, but acquiesced. “No! Not at all. You--” he paused, shaking his head, losing his words in a rare moment she found endearing. “Humans are … brutish. Blind to the beauty of the Fade.” Lissa accidentally chortled and he frowned in response. “What?”

She blushed. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just – the Fade is one place I see clearly. I can hardly manage to pick out a single star among a sky of black, but here, I can see every twinkle of each facet of every shard.” Her fingers outstretched and touched the rough wall of the cave, taking in the gritty texture in an adoring stroke. “I’d never leave if I didn’t have to,” she whispered in adoration. 

When he spoke, his voice was thick and low and crawled across her skin like a caress. “I know.”

A heat grew in her belly, a slow knot of fire that began to unspool throughout her. She couldn’t bear to look at this face, worried she might do something _very_ unwise. She kept her eyes to the wall and scratched her nails absently over the rough surface.

“The humans I have seen possess juvenile minds, cast in the duality of black and white. But you …” he stepped closer, and she could not help but turn to face him. His brows were narrowed in confusion, and his eyes seemed to see through her. His gaze threatened to peel her apart, layer by layer until she was bare to her soul. Her pulse throbbed inside her ears, her chest, her fingers. “…you have shown a subtly to your actions, a wisdom that goes against everything I know of your people.”

Despite the seriousness of the question on his face, or perhaps because of it, she tittered in a nervous laugh. “Then it seems to me you didn’t know quite as much as you _thought_ you did.”

His eyes sharpened and he shook his head. “No.” He said simply, her chest reverberating with the depth of it. The entire cave seemed to echo with voice, emphasizing his authority. “I have seen enough of the world to know that most people are small, petty. But not _you_.”

She ignored the flip flop of her gut and went to counting out the bits of sparkle in the rock if only to slow the pace of her heart. Her mouth was dry, but her tongue would barely move for speech let alone to moisten her lips. “What does this mean, Solas?” Her voice was timid but expectant, a full-bodied whisper that slithered along the smooth walls. She could hardly believe a voice so _smoky_ came from her.  

“It means that I respect you deeply, Lissa…” Warm breath tickled her ears, the hum of his voice ghosting across the soft bit of skin behind her jaw.  She felt his breath there, out and in, then paused, her skin cooling as he hesitated. She made to turn, to see he face, but he had already begun a hesitant, reluctant retreat.

“…And that I have disturbed you enough for one evening.” He turned slowly, heading out into the dark. He paused, the shadow eclipsing half of him. “You should sleep well tonight. Stay here as long as you need.” And he slipped into the dark, melting away into the thickest shadow.


	24. Admissions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WOW! I have gotten a TON of support from all of you, and I've had the pleasure of meeting some other SolasxTrevelyan shippers out there as well. Thanks for chatting! 
> 
> This is just a fun, sweet chapter, and I hope you enjoy it.

Her eyes looked out but saw nothing, her mind lost in the images of the night. Had they been real? Had it really been Solas, or some godless, torrid vision of her fevered, demon-tempted mind? She could still feel the billowing softness of the dress – a dress he had fashioned for her, from his mind. Or was it from hers? How she squirmed in tortuous pleasure, relishing the fabric as it curled around her hips, snaked between her legs, enveloped her arms, wrapping her _oh-so-intimately_ in a silken embrace. The look in his eyes, how dark and terrible like the night. A sudden shiver travelled like a shock down her spine. Muddled voices swirled in the back of her mind, breaking up the husky sound of his voice replaying again and again.

“Inquisitor?” Josephine asked, nearly making her jump.

Lissa nodded quickly, waving in an apology. “I’m sorry. Just a bit…distracted. What were we discussing?”

“I can have the report ready in a few days,” Cullen punctuated with a raise of his brow. “Less, if they march through the night.” His look held a measure of concern. But he waited, his wide hands lingering over the metal piece. It was her move.

“No need to rush the troops, Commander. The report can wait another day.”

He nodded, moving the iron piece with finality.

Throughout their conference, her mind wandered with terrible abandon. Someone mentioned _him_ , and her chest trembled in a giddy quiver. _No!_ She chided herself, willing her mind to focus on the map. Oh, she had to get this madness settled, and she felt only a torrent of words would help her untangle it. But to whom could she talk? Varric was in no state, and Cassandra would surely scorn her. She could see the stern look, devoid of any amusement sharpening her striking features. Lissa shivered. She was certain she could not bear Dorian’s remarks or his incessant teasing which would be sure to follow. Bull was shrewd enough to listen, but _too_ shrewd. He would discern her meanings, figure out whose shape these demons were taking. The thought was terrifying, and her hands were suddenly chill with a cool clamminess. Her eyes lifted up, and a sudden idea struck her. _Josephine!_

Josephine was kind and well-versed in social matters. She was close enough to be a trusted friend, but distant enough to not recognize her affections. With her experience in politics, she would understand the delicate necessity of confidentiality, and her insight might be just what she needed.

“I think,” Josephine dared, striking off a note on her parchment, “that actually concludes our agenda.”

“Thank the Maker,” Leliana said brightly. “I think I’ve earned a long hot bath in a wide copper tub.”

Cullen crossed his arms, adding gruffly, “I’d settle for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.”

“Only a few?” Josephine teased before snuffing out the candle with a short puff of breath.

Lissa hesitated, feet glued to the floor in uncertainty. Should she ask now? Could she bare to hold in her concerns any longer? She was stuck fast, frozen with indecision. Her comrades filed out from around the table, about the leave door, when she worked up the nerve to clear her throat loudly. She could feel the joy leave the room as if she had thrown a wet blanket over their plans. The vein in Cullen’s throat stood out just below his jaw, a sure sign he was suffering a headache. This addition was surely an added irritant. She chuckled nervously and turned towards Josephine.

“Um, actually, I was just …” the heavy gaze of their Commander was too much. “At ease, Commander. It’s not business, I promise,” she teased. Instantly his shoulders slacked and a crooked grin replaced the stern look. “Would you possibly – I know you’ve a lot on your schedule, but it you could spare some time…” She was like a fumbling schoolboy tittering over a pair of skirted legs. It was embarrassing, each stumble making her worse at her next attempt. “Would you happen to have time to simply chat? Maybe this evening, if it’s not too much to ask?”

Josephine’s eyes widened, a surprised yet curious arch to her fine brows. Lissa did not miss the narrowing, focused eyes of Leliana measuring their exchange. “Not at all,” Josephine grinned, setting down the quill against her writing board. “It would be a pleasure.”

 

 

Lissa paced her room, hoping everything was appropriate for their conversation. A pair of wide, plush chairs with high rounded backs were angled around a small side table. A tray of herbal tea sat waiting as curls of steam rose from the spout in lazy circles. She wrung her hands, angling the chair again. If she was going to be able to speak what was on her mind, everything had to be _perfect._

A soft voice called out below. “Inquisitor?”

“Come in, Josephine.”

Her advisor entered the room, a tray covered in delicate, shimmering desserts in hand. “I had been saving these for a special dinner, but I thought our discussion might warrant a special treat.” She looked down at the tray guiltily. “Or more…”

“Oh, Josie, you didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense!” she hushed, eagerly setting down the tray next to tea. Her enthusiasm was making her more nervous by the moment. “After what you did to help my family, the least I can do is lend a listening ear.” Josephine cocked her head sideways, a pretty blush dusting her defined cheeks. “And I _may_ have rambled more than once to you. As far I’m concerned, you’ve earned it.” For not the first time, Lissa envied her striking eyes and fine features. Her rich skin tone was smooth and warm, and her almond eyes dark and intriguing, nothing like the odd honey-hued eyes she had. Josephine’s skin was sun-kissed and radiant, with only a delicate peppering of freckles that framed her eyes like jewels. Lissa’s skin was scattered with it, like some blotchy plague. Her Advisor was perfect for her role. She could not imagine anyone able to hate someone so pretty. Chocolate curls coiled at the corners of her cheekbones and shone like silk. The Antivan was exceptionally beautiful, a fact that was hard to forget what with Blackwall and half of the Inquisition soldiers fawning over her at every opportunity. Josephine plopped delicately into the chair and crossed her legs demurely, a perfect picture of a Lady. A short stab of envy jolted her. If she had not been born a Mage, such a life would have been _hers_. Maybe she could have learned the fineries of nobility, the delicate nuances of femininity. But Lissa had learned only how to study, to keep to herself, and to enjoy the world around her. The mark seemed to reply to her musings, suddenly scratching at her palm. But if she had not been _there_ , at just the wrong time, she never would have met _him_.

_Oh, hah’ren …_

“So…” Josephine asked, startling her from her reverie. “I can’t help but be a wee bit curious as to what you want to discuss. I’ve been hinged between raging curiosity and unsettling nerves all day. It … has nothing to do with the fondue incident, does it?”

Lissa frowned. “What fondue incident?”

“Nevermind. Forget I said anything.” She quickly masked her expression behind a drink of her tea, slurping the cooled liquid from the top. “What _did_ you want to talk about?”

Lissa sighed, suddenly wondering why she had decided to put herself through such torments. Now that Josephine was here, her dark eyes waiting for her answer, the fact of it made her fearful. Would she laugh at her? Or were her fears genuine? Would Josephine understand what she was trying to say? She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing moved. The thought of it was more terrifying than staring down the hungry maw of a possessed wolf. Josephine’s gaze never wavered, waiting patiently and far too curiously as Lissa worked up her courage. _Perhaps starting vaguely would be best_. If she could just get a few of the words out, maybe others would follow.

“Have you ever been tempted? Perhaps by a desire demon?” she asked timidly.

Josephine’s almond eyes flared. Stiffly, she set the teacup aside, her eyes never leaving the Mage. Her face adopted a severe expression. _Great, nice going. You’ve terrified her_. “I do not believe so … if this is your concern, don’t you think you should tell the others your suspicions? It hardly seems like the conversation one has over tea.” She started to rise from her seat, her eyes darting back and forth as she thought. “Perhaps we should ask Solas…”

Lissa jumped up with a start. “Maker! No! I –“ Lissa groaned, shaking her head. Oh, this was going as badly as she expected. She could feel her friend’s relentless, curious gaze boring into her.

“I’m … _confused._ You might have a demon problem and you _don’t_ want Solas to know?”

“Yes, _Andraste_ , I don’t want anyone to know …” she shook her head, flopping tiredly into the chair.

 The Antivan looked at her sideways, a shrewdness sharpening her eyes. “And that would be?”

“Because I’m not sure it’s demons at all. It might be, but –oh,” she groaned, rolling her eyes in defeat. This was absolutely, most definitely, the worst moment of her life. She’d rather deal with desire demons, should that be what her visions were, than work this out with someone else.

“Why do you suspect demons?”

“I don’t know? Maybe, because,” she sighed, trying hard to open the gate for the words to flow, “sometimes my body does things I’d rather it wouldn’t not matter my mind tells it to do.”

Her friend’s face brightened with a hint of understanding. “Because that shape is … familiar?” There was a greedy glint in the Antivan’s eyes that twisted Lissa stomach with nerves.

“Yes,” she squeaked in timid admission.

Josephine’s face split wide like a giddy child. Her smile was poorly hidden, even though she tried to hide it behind her cup. “I see. What an … _interesting_ predicament.” Her delicate fingers stretched for a flaky pastry dusted in a shimmering gold. “So, what _feelings_ , exactly, do you experience?” Shrewd chocolate eyes looked at her hungrily and her mouth curved in a sly grin. Lissa felt suddenly small, wanting to shrink away, but it was too late. This puffy golden creature she had unleashed smelled weakness and was poised to strike with lethality. Josephine bent forward, focused and determined not to miss a single, juicy word.

Lissa stammered awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “Sometimes … there’s a burning in my chest, and sweeping tingles that threaten to numb my whole body if it weren’t for the way they burn. It’s sometimes much worse, and my mind runs away with the most … _terrible_ thoughts.”

Josephine leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “Well, it does sound like you are dealing with desire,” she added with a crooked grin.

Lissa buried her face in her hands. Desire was a terrible demon with which to wrestle, but this explained everything. She could now focus her energies on ridding herself of this burden, kill the demon, and move on with her studies and duties. She could finally be free of this madness.

“…but it sounds _nothing_ like demons.”

Lissa lifted her head, face twisted in confusion. “No, you don’t understand. I never felt like this before. Not while I was protected in the Circle.” The smug look on Josephine’s face was disconcerting, and it forced a nervous cough from her tight throat.

“Were I to hazard a guess, I’d say you probably get a strange flush when you least expect it?”

Lissa nodded, anticipating her diagnosis with desperation. “Yes, yes that happens.”

Her friend plucked a cherry from the top of a glossy slice of something that looked like custard and popped it in her mouth. Drawing her fingertips between full lips, she slurped off the juicy syrup with a smack. “And you probably lose all sense of stability in your knees?”

Lissa nodded again, this time more slowly, eyeing Josephine with suspicion. What was she getting at?

The dark-haired woman giggled, a mischievous darkness keening from her throat. “I don’t think you have to worry about demons, or anything other malady for that matter. It sounds to me like you have a simple, old-fashioned ailment.” She raised one fine brow with sass. “You _fancy_ someone.”

Oh, Maker. _Anything_ but that. Certain he was attractive. And so very smart. But not even adding in his considerable talent did it excuse her for having feelings. _Acknowledging_ the grey storm of his eyes that swirled with thought upon thoughts, or how a dusting of freckles iced his high cheekbones was _not_ the same thing as being _attracted_ to them. But her breathing hitched at the thought, her face blushing a brilliant hue.

“Aha!” Josephine exclaimed gleefully. “There is your answer,” she gestured to Lissa’s face, a smug grin coiling at the corner of her mouth.

Defeated, Lissa slumped deeper into the chair, burying her face in her hands as she groaned.

“I’m …. sorry. You _wanted_ it to be demons?”

“Yes!” Lissa shouted, tearing her head from her hands. “I mean – no, but – I can _fight_ demons, kill them. What am I supposed to do with _this_?”

“You’ll just have to let it run its course. It is perfectly natural, I’m afraid. Had you no interests in the Circle? No one caught your eye?”

Lissa shifted in her seat, eyes darting to the stone floor. “Maybe, when I was younger. But it was never like this. This is soul crushing. The strength of it terrifies me. How exactly does something like this ‘run its course?’”

The woman tilted her head inquisitively, and her shoulders rose and fell in a soft sigh. “It … comes and goes. Or maybe it doesn’t. You never can tell. You could of course simply admit how you feel to this man.”

Heat burning, head spinning. Oh no, that was not a viable solution. Josephine must have seen how her head bobbed from dizziness for she quickly retracted her suggestion. “Or not! You could just admit to yourself how you feel. If you cannot allow yourself to accept your feelings, how can you expect anyone else to?”

It seemed like sage advice, but how could she accept feeling this way? It was unwarranted and unconventional. And it certainly would not be reciprocated. In fact, he might even find it offensive that she, a human, had noticed him that way. She was not one of his preciously protected People. Of course, she was not entirely sure who _was_.

Josephine broke up her thoughts with a hesitant suggestion. “You could start by giving yourself permission to feel something. What attracts you to this person?”

Her tea suddenly very interesting, Lissa swirled the cup, watching as the liquid dared to spill over the rim, around and around. Perhaps if she tried.

“Well,” she started with a hard swallow, her pulse buzzing in her ears, “he’s really quite handsome.”

Josephine giggled girlishly, stamping her feet beneath her. Lissa could not suppress the grin or the happy fluttering bubbling in her chest. Instantly, a sense of dread seemed to fizzle away, leaving behind only the heady intoxication of infatuation.

“Oh, now you have to tell me more.”

*    *    *

Hours had gone by, the two woman now changed into Lissa’s pajamas, stretched out facedown on the bed, and fueled by sweets and girlish emotions. Josephine tittered. “What do you like best about him?”

Lissa kicked her feet back and forth as she thought, a wide grin splitting her face. “It’s hard to say, but it would probably be his immeasurable kindness.” She paused to take a bite out of a particularly tart slice of something with a cream filled center. Her eyes rose to the ceiling, watching the bits of candlelight flash off the glass sun catchers she had crafted. Points of light swam around the room in a dizzy swirl, light and free like the feelings bubbling in her chest. “He is always thinking, always tactical. And yet he makes time for people in need. It’s really quite beautiful.”

Josephine smiled, eyes narrowing for a moment in consideration. The Antivan dared another probing question. “What do you think of his hair?”

Lissa laughed, a deep, rolling laugh from her gut that made the bed quake beneath them. “I can’t say. I _won’t_ say.”

“Oh!” Josephine pouted, intent on discovering the identity of her interest.

A peaceful, warm quiet settled between the two. Despite the agonizing start, Lissa was glad Josephine had coaxed her into admittance. It would be no less terrible to be attracted to someone who would not return her affections, but it felt better to stop pretending it could happen.

“So…” Josephine coaxed, “what will you do about it? Will you try to gain his attention? Win affections somehow?”

Lissa eyeslashes fluttered as she looked downward, a shy grin making her lips lopsided. Make Solas notice her? She laughed in a scoff. She was certain the stiff Apostate had not a romantic bone in his body. He was pragmatic to a fault, and focused on facts and history. And she was convinced he might even be offended by the idea. It was humans, after all, that caused the downfall of his People. “I … don’t think that is a possibility. It wouldn’t be something _done_.”

Josephine quietly considered her words before she spoke softly, somberly. “You cannot know. You are, after all, a product of the impossible.”

Lissa chuckled tiredly, her eyelids heavy with want of sleep. Beyond the balcony, the horizon became visible as the first light of dawn rose above the snowy peaks.

“Goodness!” Josephine sat up with a start, padding her bare feet quickly across the floor. “I cannot believe we’ve chatted all night. I’ve a meeting in a few hours, and the war council…” She paused, and must have noticed the way Lissa’s eyes drooped, barely clinging to consciousness. “…can be delayed. I will come for you a little before our meeting is called to order.”

Lissa nodded gratefully, fighting to keep her eyes open. “Thank you,” she gaped through a yawn. Josephine flitted about the room, gathering up her clothing and items.

“No, Herald,” Josephine said with a warm, genuine grin. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for a potentially uninteresting and dialogue heavy chapter, but it is necessary for Lissa to FINALLY come to terms with her feelings! :-)


	25. An Invitation

The council meeting the next day was highly unusual. Josephine had been gracious enough to allow her to sleep a full six hours, delaying the meeting by three. What was more, the advisor had an unusual amount of compliments about Cullen’s efforts, enough to make the Commander stammer in embarrassment as he humbly accepted her gushing praises. Lissa supposed it was the lack of sleep muddying her attempts to be politically correct. At any rate, it made their meeting far more entertaining, making time go by much faster. In what seemed only a few minutes, they had arrived at the last item of them agenda when Josephine began embarrassing Cullen again. Lissa took a step back to admire the newest scene, biting her lip to keep her smile a secret.

“Well, that leaves only one additional matter,” Josephine quipped far too brightly for someone who had not slept, her almond eyes sparkling. “But _that_ I will leave up to the capable Commander. Cullen?” Josephine waved to Leliana, and the two began to leave. _Where are they going?_ As the Antivan passed, she shot Lissa a look of meaning. Lissa knew it was meant for her, but she had not a hint as to what it was supposed to mean. Spymaster and diplomat left, leaving Lissa with a rather sheepish and equally confused Commander. He shook his head, stern brow pinched tightly together.

“Ah, yes. Well …” he coughed, clearing his throat. Lissa waited patiently for him to pick of the fragments of his poise, watching with amusement as he shifted his weight between his feet. “Several months ago you asked for word regarding your brother.” He reached into the folds of his cloak, pulling out a worn square of folded parchment. His thick, calloused hands unfolded it carefully, mindful of the ragged edges. Was this a letter from Rupert? Had they heard from her brother? Her heart quickened at the thought, her golden eyes wide. “Considering the nature of the subject, I thought it best I tell you alone. Oddly, Josephine agreed.” He sighed, shaking his head forlornly. “I’m not entirely sure how to tell you this but …”

His hesitation gave way to the most depressing thoughts. Dread hardened in her chest and dropped to her gut with a heavy thud. Stinging, burning tears began to pool in her eyes as her throat worked a worried knot. When she spoke, her voice was grated and tight. “Oh, Maker … is he …”

Embarrassed shock animated his features. “Maker’s breath, _no_!” He insisted instantly, darting to her side as if to offer some sort of comfort. But once there, he stood there uncomfortably, raising a hand to rake nervously through his flaxen curls. “Your brother is _fine_.” He cursed himself quietly, whispering pathetically under his breath. “I _knew_ Josephine was more suited for this.” He offered her the paper stiffly. “Perhaps you should read it yourself.”

Despite her curiosity, she reached out hesitantly for the foreign parchment as Cullen slipped back to his usual spot behind the table. Her fingers brushed over the red wax seal, emblazoned with the Trevelyan family crest. She remembered her father sitting at his writing desk, imprinting his ring onto important looking documents. Nostalgia gripped her chest, squeezing the breath from her lungs. Had it been her father’s hands that touched this letter? Or had her brother inherited the task now?

Delicately, she unfolded the stiff paper and squinted at the words. But even though she blinked away the tears, the script was muddled together in an endless blot. “I’m sorry, Commander … it seems I’m having a difficult time reading today. Could you … perhaps …”

He nearly jumped the war table to be at her side, muttering more unintelligible words broken up by ‘Maker’ and ‘stupid’ now and again. “Of-of course, Herald. I should have – Allow me,” He insisted gently. He recited the words clearly and formally as if they were a military order. “Lady Lissa M. H. Trevelyan,” he paused, as if considering her other names, but continued dutifully. “You are cordially invited to attend the Most Holy Matrimony of Lord Rupert F. G. Trevelyan to Lady Sirene D. R. DuPointe at half-past Middaye on the 3rd  Day of our Maker of Harvestmere.”

His voice continued reciting the letter, but it droned on without her attention, her mind lost in possibilities. Her brother – her very own brother – was not only alive and well: he was getting married! Her face split into a wide, goofy grin, her chest bubbling up within her. Her brother, whom she had admired for so long, had found love? He was well and happy? Visions of grandeur, of lace and brocade and hundreds of candles filled her mind when she thought of the ceremony. And what of his betrothed? She must be wonderful, and certainly she would be beautiful. A fitting match for her strapping Templar brother. How did they meet? What was she like? What did Rupert even look like now?

“… according to this, it’s just over two weeks’ time.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Could they have given us less notice?” She missed the sarcasm in his tone, too elated to care about deadlines.

“Really? Two weeks? I wonder if Josephine can get me something to wear by then.” She felt like floating around the room, spinning in joyous abandon. What would she wear? What did anyone wear to a wedding? “I’ll have to bring a gift.” She spun on Cullen, whipping around with determined interest. “Do you know anything about Ferelden weddings?”

“Inquisitor …” he called quietly, gently urging her to more focused thoughts. But her romantic hopelessness steamrolled her common sense, sending her in a giddy spiral.

“How many people can attend? Is it just me? I wonder what mother and father look like now. Do you think she’ll like me? Read the rest of the note! Did he say—“

“Inquisitor!” He insisted more forcefully, his voice still kind.

Blinking, she paused. “What?”

“You may wish to note a few concerns. Why _now_ is your family reaching out to you?” he thumped the parchment with the back of two knuckles. “It’s been widely known you’re the Herald for nearly a year, and the Inquisitor for several months. And now they reach out to you with less than a few weeks’ notice? I wonder if they only want to take advantage of your position.”

Her jaw dropped, aghast at the assumption. Her brother would _never_ do something like that. “Rupert would not do such a thing!” she insisted with a small amount of venom and a hint of injury, enough to make the former Templar’s brows raise in surprise.

“I don’t mean to offend,” he offered gently, each word measured and clear, “but protecting _you_ is my priority. It just seems … odd.” He crossed his arms, shaking his head as if to settle his swirling thoughts. “When you mentioned you had a brother in the Templars, I did some research. I found him among the loyalist up north, remaining to protect the Mages from the irate villagers who would have had their heads.”

She frowned. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

“I extended him an invitation to join and serve here with his Templar brethren. But every correspondence was ignored. So why now is he interested in the Inquisition?”

She would not be deflated by his nay-saying. “A lot of things could have happened. Maybe he was too busy falling in love?” she added in sing-song tone and punctuated with a giddy smile. Cullen did not seem impressed. He was about to interject, but she continued with his mouth still agape, holding up a hand to prevent him. “It’s _your_ job to be concerned about my safety. It’s _my_ job to gush over my brother’s wedding.” She pulled the parchment closer, straining through squinted eyes to read a hand-scrawled note on the back. “What does this say?”

“It’s a note adding that the Inquisitor and her honored guests of choice are welcome to attend…’we shall gladly accommodate any number.’”

“Ah! See? That’s Trevelyan hospitality for you. I’ll leave the security details up to you. I have to prepare for a wedding!”

 

*   *   *

“Have you ever actually attended a Ferelden wedding?” Josephine glowered at her askance, her accent thickening with nerves. Lissa ignored the inquisitive arch of her fine brow and continued perusing her wardrobe.

“Never. Why?” Pulling out a set of long robes, she noted the wear around the seams and shook her head with a scowl.

“Because it might behoove you to know your own family’s customs?”

“Come now, Josephine,” she asked with a smug grin, holding a set of robes against her for Josephine’s consideration. “I’ve done my research. It will be a rigid, boring affair with Chantry recitations, obtuse symbolism, and rote blessings.” Josephine grimaced at the set of robes, and Lissa slipped them quickly back into the wardrobe.

“That’s a rather accurate if not undesirable assessment. And here I thought you hadn’t actually attended one.”

Lissa chuckled, pushing aside more clothes in her determined hunt. “No, but I asked Mother Giselle, and she was happy to fill me in on each and every minute detail. You know, it’s quite different from what’s described in novels.”

Josephine scowled. “Being fiction? Yes, I would assume so,” she replied with a good measure of snark.

Lissa sighed, and ignored her remark as she shut the wardrobe without success. “Mark it down. We’ll have to go shopping. I don’t have anything suitable to represent my family at a wedding.”

“Done.”

Lissa flopped into the high-backed chair and sprawled out loosely. She stared at the ceiling, watching as bright images of her imagination swirled overhead. “Just think,” she sighed gleefully, “my own brother, getting married.”

Josephine smiled at her warmly, even though there was a hint of exasperation in her eyes. “You are _hopeless_.”

 

*   *   *

 

With her traditional Ferelden garb on a rush order (at no small fee), Lissa was left to consider who to bring in attendance. Several of her comrades politely excused themselves. Sera was no longer interested once she learned it would be thick with tradition and pranks would be severely punished. At least she had recognized her ineptitude for self-control. Blackwall seemed extremely uncomfortable with the idea, and the moment Lissa gave him an out, he took it. By the end of it, she had snagged Varric, Cassandra, Cole, Iron Bull, Josephine, and Cullen to agree to attendance. But she still had one last person to invite: Solas.

Her heart fluttered like a wild hummingbird behind her breasts as she paused at the rough wooden door. She breathed deeply, in and out, in and out, and focused on how the breath pulled down her throat and pushed out her lungs, imagining it swirling around inside of her as she soothed her harried mind. She had been able to use the façade of wedding planning to stall her lessons, but the shameful truth was that she had been avoiding him. Maker, how she cared for him. The thought of being close to him now – now that she knew the truth of herself – was terrifying. What if she did something stupid? Failed to impress him? _Stop it_. These thoughts were not helping her calm her mind. And what would it matter if she did do something foolish? He was her friend. What was the actual worst thing that could happen? He would not suddenly turn on her and disown her. He was her teacher, her _hah’ren_. She had more trust in him than that, didn’t she? With a final thought of resolve, she pushed through the door.

Solas was poised in his chair, intently reading a book, one hand cupping his chin. Without looking up, he greeted, “Ah, the prodigal student returns. I wondered how long you would stare at the door before entering.”

All resolve to self-control was lost. She felt the flush rush to her face and cursed her inherited fair skin. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all. To be honest, I had missed our discussions. What is it you need?” He closed the book and leaned back against the chair. He folded his slender hands across the desk and gave her his full attention, a fact that made her feel suddenly very exposed.

With a confidence she did not feel, she neared his desk, half leaning and half sitting on the edge as she sometimes did. “I actually came to offer an invitation.”

His brows raised in amusement. “An invitation?”

She nodded and scratched her forearm absently. “My brother is getting married, and he is most eager to meet some of my friends. I’d be honored if you’d consider attending.”

“A wedding?” he remarked, his brow quirking in bemusement. “It has been years since I’ve seen one in the person, but if the memories I’ve seen in the Fade are any indication, it would be an interesting evening.”

“Then you’ll come?”

“Perhaps,” he teased, reaching for a green apple sitting at the corner of his desk. He drew it towards his mouth and crunched into it. Lissa tried hard not to notice the flex of the muscles in his jaw. “What purpose would an Elvhen Apostate have a Ferelden wedding?” He softly slurped at the juice before it ran down his dimpled chin.

“Well, I …” she stammered, looking away from his face to the unattractive table beneath her to calm her thoughts, “I have invited Varric to attend. I thought Cole would very much like to attend so that he could learn more about being human. It will help take Varric’s mind off things. And should something go wrong, I would feel much more comfortable knowing you were there.”

His eyes narrowed, offering her the apple. She nodded in thanks and took a bite of her own. It was cool and sweet, a sign that their trade relationships were going well, no doubt to Josephine’s skill. “An interesting thought. I’m sure the evening would provide a great deal of stimulation for his curiosity. However, you can be certain not everyone will appreciate his presence.”

Lissa straightened, seamlessly adopting her role as Inquisitor. “He will be present as a guest of the Inquisition, and that includes its full sanction and protection.”

His eyes flickered at that, and she was not unsure what it meant. But she was unable to deny the slow heat that it stirred to life in her gut. “And will you be able to watch him the entire time? As Herald and sister to the groom, I imagine you will be rather occupied. What if Cole should revert, twisting into a murderous demon?”

Her brows furrowed in confusion. Of all people, she expected _him_ to understand. Was this a test perhaps? “I trust Cole the same as anyone else. What if Iron Bull decides to use his horns as serving utensils? What if Sera –“ Lissa paused, shaking her head as if to rid it of her thoughts, “….well, I can think of a number of inappropriate things.”

Solas scowled. There was no love lost in his look. “You’ve invited Sera?”

“No, but that’s beside the point. Cole deserves my trust as well as anyone.”

His eyes held hers, measuring her intently. His eyes softened in a silent approval. “A wise and thoughtful approach,” his words spoke agreement, but there was that little tone in his voice that indicated there was more he left unsaid.

She shifted, turning towards him slightly. “But …”

“Hmm?” he hummed innocently, picking up the book where he left it.

“But what? You obviously have something to add.”

He scoffed in the back of his throat. “I said no such thing.”

She smirked. “You didn’t have to, _hah’ren_.”

“You are perceptive, _da’len_ ,” he replied with matching snark and pleased grin. “Despite what inferences you derive from my tone, you seem to have a fair grasp of the situation.”

“Well, where I fall short, I’m confident you will adequately make it up.” She took another bite of the apple, careful not to eat more than a fair half.

“So I will be insurance should something go amuck?” he chuckled at the thought.

Mouth full of apple pulp, she protested. “No, of course not!” she swallowed quickly. “I only meant that … that I would feel more comfortable if you were there.” Having her fill of the fruit, she offered him the other half.

He accepted it, turning it round as if the imprints of her teeth would tell the answer. He hesitated in answering, and her heart began a slow, hard throb that echoed in her ears. With a sly grin, he took another large bite out of the apple. He savored the flavor, licking the juice from his full lips as she watched with rapt attention. She thought she caught his eyes following the table to where it met the curve of her hips and rake a quick sweep across her form before meeting her eyes. Her logic corrected her. It was most likely her own desires interjecting themselves into her perceptions. “I will attend then. I am certain it will prove to be an _intriguing_ evening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *HYPERVENTILATES*
> 
> GUYS. GUYSSSS. TOMORROW is the DLC and I - I just - *DIES* I'm so excited, fully of giddy nerves and also the desire to puke. I'm saying this to let you know the next chapter might be a *bit* delayed. I *have* to play the heck out of this to know how I'm going to finagle this story. SO for the love of Lissa, I'm going to be playing until my brain leaks out my ears or my eyes shrivel up. But what will most likely happen is that I will have to stop playing because my eyes are so puffy from crying likeomgoshidon'tknowificantakethisbioware!!!! 
> 
> So, see you soon?


	26. The Arrival

When Lissa slipped out of her tent to join their caravan, a surge of nerves wrenched her gut. Today was the day they arrived at the Trevelyan estate. She would finally be seeing her family. Her charger had been specifically selected by Josephine and Master Dennet to assure the most impressive appearance. Her usual mare had been exchanged for a rich, red charger of the finest Ferelden stock. And today across its muscular form draped an extravagant saddlery and the finest caparison. The fabric was styled in rich Ferelden tradition of reds, browns, and gold, robust tones that brought out the strength and sturdiness of their country.

“My, you look like quite the king today, Harold.” She patted the horse with affirmative puff of her lips across his velvety snout. Master Dennet would hate the name and the play on words, but she liked it and he didn’t seem to mind.

“Only the best for a Lady of Trevelyan,” Cullen commented, taking visual stock of the beast and nodding in respect of the fine creature. He turned towards her, eyes flaring slightly as he took her in. “And you – you look every bit the part.”

Snug riding breeches hugged her flared hips, the stitching accentuating her generous curves in the most flattering way possible. A set of robes in thick brocade in a traditional pattern draped over her in warm, rich hues that made her peaches and cream skin glow and set her ruby hair ablaze. The silken waves were tied up in intricate plaits, wrapping around the nape of her neck in a woven puzzle. A resting sweetly on her brow was a delicate circlet of gold.

“Now, now, Curly. You might catch flies,” Varric teased as he passed by, hoisting Bianca onto his back. Cullen quickly snapped shut his agape mouth, turning away in an embarrassed fluster.

With a heave, Lissa hoisted herself onto the steed, ready to make the last day of travel. She gripped the reins, drinking in the scent of horse and clean country air. The supple leather of the saddle creaked beneath her, and her anxious mount huffed impatiently. “There, there. We’ll be on our way soon.” _Trust me. I want this over with as much you do._

“Inquisitor,” a voice started that flipped her already unsettled stomach. “You look impressive.” Solas steered his mount next to hers, a sturdy, graceful hart of greyish blonde. Her tutor seemed different somehow without his staff he so often used as a walking stick. While he usually appeared the sage, gentle guide, here he sat straighter, projecting a different energy. He seemed more like a commanding officer than a simple wandering dreamer. And perhaps her favorite part was that both suited him so well.

At least her blush would go with her attire. “Thank you,” she replied demurely, fighting the urge to look away. “I’m hoping the extravagance grants me the appearance of a confidence I do not feel.”

“Posturing?”

“Posturing.”

“You will do well, _hah’ren_. Of that I am certain, Inquisitor.” His encouragement was also a subtle reminder that she was not without her teacher. It stoked a comforting warmth in her chest knowing he offered his presence. Paired with that gentle reminder was the clever addition of her title. She was no longer just the lonely Trevelyan trapped in the Circle, missing home and wishing for storms. She was the appointed leader of one of Thedas’ most powerful organizations. She was the Inquisitor, and nothing that happened there today would change that. She would remain his student and leader of the Inquisition no matter what happened on the Trevelyan estate. She marveled at his skill to say so much within so little. Was it simply his cleverness? Or was it their intuitive, mutual understanding that permitted it to be so effective? She finally settled that it must be a bit of both.

“Thank you, _hah’ren_. I’m very glad you’re here.” Her voice was softer than she intended. She redoubled her efforts at professionalism and spoke again, this time more even and pronounced. “I don’t doubt I’ll be seeking out your advice before this is through.” With a click of her tongue and sharp kick to the steed’s haunch, she set off at a saunter through the last remnants of camp. The commotion of voices and the snort of impatient horses as they stamped the ground mingled with the energetic shouts from the soldiers. Solas followed next to her, silently urging the hart with hardly a gesture, a shift of his weight and a slight touch with the reigns. When had he learned to ride so well?

“I may have little experience in Ferelden customs. But what I know of weddings, I will gladly offer.” His tone was unusually bright, and an amused grin pulled on his lips.

“I really expected to need your insight with familial matters. I had no idea you were an expert on weddings, too,” she chuckled, encouraging her mount into a faster trot. She raised her voice to be heard over the clacking of hooves against the hard-packed ground. “Have you seen many weddings in the Fade?”

“Yes, very,” he said matter-of-factly. “Weddings are often the stage for the greatest intrigues, power plays, and political struggles in all of history. I’ve seen countries rise and fall with a simple ‘I do.’”

“What? Really?” She shook her head with a scowl. When she thought of weddings, it was not something to admire for its political undertones. It was a beautiful commitment made before a community of friends and loved ones who supported the pair and their new life to come. To reduce it to nothing more than a match of chess was terribly grim. “I assume that such plots happen among royalty. But on the whole, weddings are much more than that. Or less, I imagine.”

“Not so,” he said simply. “Most weddings are selfish attempts to better one’s station. Thousands of them played out before me in the Fade, and it is almost always the same.”

She straightened in her saddle. “That’s a bit of a grim outlook, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps, but it is the truth.”

What a terrible thought! Something akin to irritation grated in her chest, her pulse quickened heatedly. How could he believe something so horrible? Did he expect some grand political intrigue during her brother’s wedding? Was that why he came? For some measure of entertainment? She kept her gaze strictly forward, her back straight as a knife. Did he not think love was possible? Was it such a foreign concept to him? Did he really believe marriage to be such a detestable state, shallow and meaningless?

“Hup hup!” she urged her steed with a swift kick to its haunch. The charger was all too eager to work at full pace and took off with a start, leaving a confused, curious _hah’ren_ in her wake.

Ten miles passed, and she had not said one thing to Solas. Even the aching of her thighs and rump did not distract her thoughts enough. A fast-paced click-clack of hooves advanced her as Commander Cullen pulled next to her. “We’re here,” he added, spying the land with a hawkish gaze. That was sufficient enough to send her thoughts careening to the side.

“Whoa,” she urged, yanking on the reigns. Her charger stopped with an irritated huff and pawed at the dirt road impatiently. Her heart thumped quickly as she squinted into the dark blur of trees. Was she really home? It was thickly forested on this part of the estate, and try as she might, she could not make out any sign of a dwelling. But it was still Trevelyan land.

“Your family’s land,” Solas commented, eyes narrowing on her with interest. She had not even heard him or hart approach, and her hearing was quite good. “How does it feel to be back on the Trevelyan estate?”

Glad to be on a different subject, she readily answered with a grimace, “It feels … foreign.” _Not at all like I wished_. “Also like I’m going to throw up.”

Just then, a horse and rider emerged from the tree line. A young man dressed in simple leathers sat upon the dappled mare, its cream main rivalling any maiden’s for beauty. The horse was draped in a familiar caparison, the crest of House Trevelyan strikingly embroidered for all to see.

“My Lady Inquisitor,” the man greeted with as much of a bow as he could managed from the saddle. “Welcome to Estate Trevelyan. I’ll escort you - and your company,” he added, sneaking a curious look at their eclectic entourage, “to the stables. From there, our servants will handle your horses before you’re escorted to guest quarters. This way, if you please, Herald.”

It stung a bit, to be addressed as Inquisitor and greeted to “Estate Trevelyan.” Of course she knew it was estate Trevelyan. This was her home! Did they not expect to treat her like family? Was she really just the Herald, only the Inquisitor? _Perhaps it was just the stable boy_. He did not know her, of course. How could she expect anything different? Pushing down the disappointment she had not been greeted by Rupert, she clicked in her mouth, urging her steed to follow.

For the next mile, Lissa shifted her attention to absorbing and memorizing every detail she could see whilst fighting a rolling surge of nausea in her gut. She noticed the wide expanse of tall, reedy grass, hemmed in by a sturdy fence. Several horses and a few druffalo grazed lazily in the warm light of sunset. She drank in the scent of hay and grass on the wind, noted how tightly packed the cobblestones were beneath them. They passed a small but verdant patch of farmland, thick with stalks of corn, half an acre of wheat, and a colorful, tangled vineyard. A hard knot formed in her throat, and she tried to swallow it down. She remembered playing in the vineyard, a very long time ago. Ducking under the trellises and slipping between the vines as she played. Snatching a grape of two was a common practice which always earned harsh barking from the workers.

Just beyond the patch of growth emerged the impressive structure. Had her parents constructed more? It was much larger than she remembered. As the cut around the curve of the path, the building split, revealing the main house and a smaller set of buildings added behind. That made sense, but she had not realized her family had been doing so well. Of course, she reminded with a sting, she really didn’t know anything about her family.

The scent of cherry wood burning in the house tinted the early evening air with warmth and a rich smoke. The scent of a smoked meat gave it a sharp, smoky scent, and her mouth instantly salivated. No doubt they would be eating well tonight. The cobblestone path curved round the stables and up to the main house, but waiting before the bend were a handful of servants standing in a neat line, all but one with their covered heads aimed to the ground.

“Welcome to House Trevelyan, Herald,” a short, lithe woman greeted at the end of the path. “I am Elys, head servant. You, and your company, are most welcome.”

“Head servant?” Lissa asked as she slipped from her mount, glad her tingling legs did not embarrass her in front of everyone. “It’s nice to meet you, Elys. Is Julia not with the house any longer?” Julia had been her mother’s handmaid and took care of Lissa and her brother when he parents were away. They had not had many servants when she was a child. At least, not that she remembered.

“I apologize. I am not familiar with that name. But, if you would allow us, we will handle your horses here. I will escort you to guest quarters.”

She nodded, trying to mask her disappointment. “Of course, Elys. Thank you.”

Following the slender woman, she stole curious glances across the estate, hoping to catch a glimpse of her brother. The wide, wooden door to the guest house opened with a groan. A lazy plume of smoke curled from the top, signaling a welcoming fire on the hearth. As soon as she entered, a flurry of servants buzzed around her, taking her bags, her cloak, and any other accoutrements. None of them dared to look her in the eye. It was very odd.

Suddenly devoid of her burdens, she turned to check on her companions. Servants buzzed around her Commander, earning a frown as they offered to remove his furred cloak. Varric was nearly lost in the swirl, but not uncomfortable with the showering attention. However, the surge of service paused suddenly, the servants pausing to take stock of her tutor. They glanced at him curiously and shuffled away with their luggage.

Everything screeched to a halt once Iron Bull ducked into the doorway. It would have been comical if it weren’t so pathetic. Servants stopped, wide eyed and frozen as they gawked at the Qunari.

“It’s okay,” Bull greeted, throwing a nod to the heavy trunks on his shoulders. “I’ve got it.”

One dared a look in his single eye and nodded before scurrying off to aid the rest of their crew.

“Well that was … certainly quite the welcome,” Cullen gruffly remarked, arms crossed as he tried to maneuver out of the crowded hallway.

Elys popped around a corner. “Thank you for your patience, Herald. Right this way.”

“Elys,” she queried as she followed her through the stone hallway, trying to steal a peek at the painted portraits hanging on the walls, “has House Trevelyan always had so many servants?”

She chuckled. “No, m’Lady. Less than half of the staff you see here are of the Trevelyan estate.”

Lissa titled her head curiously, “Then where are the rest from?”

“Why, we’re here in attendance with Lady DuPointe to prepare for the wedding.”

Ah! She should have noticed based on her accent. But why did Lady DuPointe bring all of her servants? Surely her family had enough.

They were led to a wide parlor where they were to wait for their hosts. It was unusual, and seemed rather formal and distant. Not at all what she had hoped. But perhaps they were busy with wedding preparations? For the next several minutes, Lissa, along with her closest companions, waited for their hosts. The room was large and accommodating for such a number, with several sofas arranged in a neat square that encouraged conversation. Or it would, had not everyone been so tense. A thick, sturdy circular table rested in the middle, stocked with tea and dry, sweet biscuits. Thick, rough cedar beams stretched the expanse of the wide room, and two yawning hearths burned on either side of the room, filling the large space with a comforting warmth.

The crackling of the logs was interrupted by the nervous pacing of her ambassador. Josephine paced back and forth, following the curve of the heavy woven rug in the center. She circled the small table, fending off Bull’s wanting grasp as he tried – again – to reach a biscuit. “This is most unusual,” Josephine quipped as she continued worrying a path in the rug.

Lissa sighed, her leg bouncing up and down absently with wound up nerves. She must have appeared as nervous as she felt; Cullen stepped next the couch in a protective stance, blocking her from the two doors.

Finally, the heavy door groaned on its hinges, and in stepped Elys. “Presenting Lord and Lady Trevelyan of Ferelden.” She bowed, and stepped to the side.

Without thought, Lissa stood, heart hammering between her breasts. From the door emerged two figures as if carved from memory. Time had aged their faces, but Lissa would know them anywhere. Her mother’s regal stance, the striking curve of her cheekbones, the rich dark of her chocolate strands. (All things Lissa noted she did not inherit.) Her mother was slight but imposing, the very figure of a Ferelden lady. The rich furs and heavy fabrics added a strength to her frame. Her father’s thick russet beard was now streaked with grey-blonde, his freckled cheeks bunched in a grin. His wavy copper hair was thinner than it had been, and started farther back on his forehead. But the lighter streaks of blonde and the wrinkles around his eyes made him seem stronger somehow. Lissa’s throat tightened with emotions, and her mind went blank of words. Thankfully, Josephine was ever ready.

“Lord and Lady Trevelyan, may I present the Herald of Andraste and leader of the Inquisition, Lady Lissa Trevelyan. Though I’m sure she needs little introduction.”

Lissa’s voice found its strength. “Hello, father, mother.” Thankfully, her father stepped forward, arms outstretched as if for an embrace. She walked, perhaps too eagerly for someone her station, to his side. When they met, he put one arm around her stiffly in an awkward half embrace.

“It’s good to see you, Lissa.”

“Yes … you as well, Father …” she replied hesitantly, a forced, uncertain grin thinning her lips. He released her, and she shrunk from his side, back towards her companions. 

“You will find no shortage of hospitality here,” her mother’s silvery voice promised. “We’re very glad to see you accepted the invitation.”

“Even on such _short_ notice, the Inquisitor made it a priority to attend,” Josephine replied with a curt bow.

“Lord and Lady Trevelyan,” Cullen greeted with a nod.

“Mother, father, you’ve already met Josephine, the Inquisition’s capable ambassador. This is Commander Cullen, former Knight-Commander of the Templar Order, and a very fine addition to the Inquisition.”

Her mother grinned, and it reached her eyes. “We are certainly much honored to have someone of your station in our home. No doubt Rupert will enjoy discussing Templar matters with you, once he is available.”

“Where is Rupert, actually?” Lissa dared to ask. “I very much look forward to seeing him.”

Her father shrugged. “He is no doubt being detained by his future wife, whose family has spared no expense to ensure that tomorrow is in perfect order.”

“I see,” she nodded, forcing the disappointment from her tone.

“M’lord,” Cullen continued, concern cinching his heavy brow. “As Commander, it is my duty to ensure that the Inquisitor is kept safe, as well as our company. Before the end of the night, I should like to discuss the matter of your security.”

He nodded. “You’re on top of things, Commander. I like that.” Her father smiled, and it wrinkled the crow’s feet below his eyes. “I am always supportive of anyone who takes an interest in protecting my daughter, particularly when it could mean the salvation of Thedas.”

“Thank you, Ser.”

“You have quite the eclectic group of guests,” her mother noted as she glanced around the room, one eyebrow quirked inquisitively. “Are each of them members of your Inquisition?”

She bristled a bit at her tone. She said ‘your Inquisition’ the way one might say ‘your playthings.’ Still, she could not be more eager to introduce her friends. With a bright tone, she began introductions. “Mother, Father, it is my pleasure to introduce you to a few of my closest friends. Verric Tethras, renowned author.”

Varric stood and bowed, a greasy grin on his face. “A pleasure.”

“Tethras?” her mother quipped suddenly. “Oh, Sirene will be simply thrilled. She’s quite the fan of your works. They are, apparently, quite the rage in Orlais.”

“Well, I never can resist making people happy,” Varric said with a thin veil of snark only his close companions would note. “I can’t wait to meet the blushing bride. Maybe I’ll even sign a copy for her.”

Orlais? So Sirene was Orlesian?

“Iron Bull is leader of the Chargers, possibly the most skilled mercenary band in all of Thedas. We’re very lucky he’s with us.”

Bull stood, eliciting a wide-eyed response from both her parents. She held back a giggle.

“Ser. Ma’am,” Bull said simply, no doubt adding to his imposing appearance. A chuckled slipped from her lips.

“Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine and a good friend.”

“A pleasure,” she greeted curtly.

Lissa’s stomach flopped as her eyes met Solas’, just glinting in the shadow. He had remained towards the back of the room, silently observing as was his usual habit. “And this is Solas,” she introduced, her voice softer than she intended. He stepped from the shadows and into the firelight, bowing demurely and with an unusual measure of humility. “He is—“

“A servant of the Inquisitor,” Josephine added quickly. “And a skilled healer. He’s brought her back from the brink of death on several occasions.” Noting the sudden shock on her parents’ faces, she quickly corrected. “Well, maybe not quite that close to death…”

She rounded on Josephine with a quiet question, then darted back to Solas’ gaze. His held no surprise, and he simply grinned as if …

_He knew?_

“It is honor.”

“Ah, I did not realize you would be bringing a servant of your own. Elys, kindly show him the servants’ quarters.”

“Do not trouble yourself, M’lady,” Solas interjected with a bemused grin. “I prefer to sleep outside.”

Lady Trevelyan cast him a sidelong glance, but did not object. “Very well, if that is your preference. Please feel free to make yourselves comfortable. If you need anything, one of the servants will oblige you. You have three hours until dinner, and it will be a grand affair. I’m certain no one here objects to a full smoked hog and a haunch of roast druffalo?”

Overlapping agreement and words of anticipation filled the room. “Good. Then I bid you farewell until later this evening.” Both Lord and Lady excused themselves, and Elys followed after, bowing shortly before closing the door.

Lissa sighed heavily, the tension in her body. She slumped into the sofa with a huff, earning a chuckle from Varric.

“Well, that went just fine,” Josephine commented as if trying to convince herself.

“I’ll go discuss the security with Lord Trevelyan. That is, if you’re alright with remaining here by yourself,” Cullen question, shooting a sideways glance to Josephine.

Lissa waved him off. “I’m fine, Commander,” she chuckled tiredly. “Besides, I’ve got Cassandra as a roommate. I’m well protected on all sides.”

He hummed gruffly, walking away with a nod. Bull and Varric stood, eager to enjoy the plush amenities and a steaming bath. Just as Lissa began to unravel her emotions from the evening, Cole appeared at her side. “It is good that I came,” he said softly, looking down to her wringing hands. “Balls of knots everywhere, tangled up and bouncing around. I want to help.”

Lissa smiled. Cole’s kindness was never in short supply.

“Why are you afraid?” he asked softly, peering up at here from under the wide brim of his unusual hat.

“It’s … complicated,” she finally admitted. She knew Cole could sense her feelings, and perhaps it was best to leave it at that. How could she put into words what she herself did not understand?

“ _He sees me, but he doesn’t know. Looks at me standing right here. What does he want from me? I cannot make him happy if I don’t know. Only want to make him happy._ ”

Lissa sighed as a tired, lopsided grin tugged on her lips. He was a stubborn, well-meaning creature. “I haven’t seen my family in years. I guess I expected it to be different. Father seemed so … distant, like he was wearing a mask.” Wringing her hands in the folds of her robes, she dried the clamminess from her palms. “I’ve always wondered if they were proud of me. And now that I’m here, I still wonder.”

Cole shook his head, not entirely sure what to do with the information. “But that’s a different ball, rolling around but not blocking.” l

“Hey, come on, kid,” Varric called from the doorway. “If there’s one thing to know about being human, it’s how to enjoy a soothing soak.”

Reluctantly, Cole left her side, shuffling after the Dwarf. It was good to see Varric bright again. He took Cole underwing readily, and the sense of purpose seemed to stop the seeping of old, inner wounds.

“Inquisitor. A word?” Solas asked calmly, no hint of his intention on his face.

He led her outside, winding through the halls towards the back of the guest house and into the damp, cool air. The sun was dipping behind the lavender mountains and rimmed the landscape in a line of gold. Bird chatter chirped from the nearby hedge, and the lowing of druffalo hummed softly in the background. The scent of the stables, of leather, of hay, and horse sweat mingled with the nearby pines. It was a lovely evening and boded well for the ceremony the next day.

Solas paused, looking out over the mountains quietly, hands folded behind his back. “What are you thinking, Inquisitor?” he asked rather softly with genuine interest.

She chuckled darkly, leaning against a nearby stone hedge marker. “Perhaps I could better answer your question if you narrowed it down to subject matter. Were I to tell you everything on my mind, I’m afraid we’d be here all night.”

“Not an unpleasant prospect, but we _would_ miss the smoked pork,” he turned with a grin, stirring the butterflies to fluttering in her gut.

Lissa laughed and sighed, glad that the unusual stiffness between them had eased. “I … I supposed I’m more nervous about the entirety of this event than I realized.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I never realized how much I care about what my family thinks of me. I’ve always been curious, you know. Did they miss me when I went to the Circle? Did they celebrate my birthday when I was away? But everything seemed so … formal, so distant. I’m not sure how I fit in.”

He remained thoughtfully silent, allowing her opportunity to work out her thoughts before he replied.

“And I’m a bit injured that you did not tell me you were my servant,” she teased with a measure of seriousness.

He grinned slyly. “Josephine and I noted the several Elvhen servants here and decided it would be best were I not introduced as the mysterious Elvhen Apostate who tutors their daughter on the proper use of magic.” He quirked one brow as the sunlight setting his profile in sharp relief. “Besides, posing as your servant lends itself to many advantages.”

The thought lent itself to some rather _interesting_ possibilities. She swallowed. “How so?”

“I can listen to what the servants have to say, get into places you normally couldn’t. Should there be any concerns, I can relay them to Commander Cullen.” His eyes glinted with a tease. “And I can sleep outside without bringing any unusual questions.”

She sighed, shaking her head with a grin. “Had I known that sooner, I could have used it to my advantage.”

“Oh?” he asked with a bemused chuckle, eyes lowering on her. “What sort of advantages?”

Her stupid complexion was going to betray her. She could feel the heat rising to her face and prayed the warm light of the sun would hide it. Perhaps she imagined it, but he seemed to be amused at her lack of words.

“I might start by ordering you to stop being glum about the entire celebration.”

He laughed. “I see my sort of realism has cast a shadow on your anticipation. Then for your sake, I will try to enjoy myself.”

She crossed her arms, and answered back sternly in a tease. “Well, do that. I’m going to try, even if it will be the death of me.” She sighed, looking out over the mountains wistfully, inwardly missing Skyhold. “Is it odd that, now that I’m in the place that bears my name, I long to be _anywhere_ else?”

“Well, that is a change of outlook. I’ve just begun to anticipate staying here.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t overjoy yourself on account of my orders,” she added sarcastically.

“No, I mean it. I can only imagine what treasures I will uncover when I sleep in the place where my pupil was reared.”

 _Oh, Maker have mercy_. She had not considered that. Had she thought he would be interested in such a thing, that he actually could see something of her childhood, she might have rescinded her invitation. What sort of things _would_ he find? His eyes held hers, unmoving, unflinching, and far too intently. “I … I suddenly regret offering you an invitation to come here, seeing as how you’re determined to embarrass me.”

“Does it embarrass you?” he asked with enjoyment, his full lips turning crookedly in a smirk. “Perhaps I wish to be a better teacher, and want to understand his _da’len_ better.” He looked to sky and turned towards the house, looking over his shoulder at her. “And I’ve kept the guest of honor far too long. Come. You must be prepared for the wedding dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this chapter written before the DLC. I'm glad. Because now my heart is broken into teeny tiny pieces and I have no words. I have been *legitimately* depressed since 1:15am the morning after release. The first time I played through it I think I was just too tired to appreciate it, but as I lay in bed, my heart just twisted. I played it again the next day for flycam to get pretty shot and it may as have cut my heart out with a spoon. 
> 
> I'm scared and curious as to how it will all affect Lissa. But of course, who knows what will happen in the meantime? There are other parties who seem to be interested in her. ;-)


	27. To Be Her Servant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, there! Some of you are first-time commenters, and new readers. WELCOME aboard the good ship Solavelyan. Be aware that this fic is spoiler heavy by necessity. If you've not played the DLC content, you will have it spoiled. 
> 
> There will be NSFW chapters. These will be marked individually. :-) 
> 
> As I much as I can manage, I'll be slowing my updates down *just a bit* to stretch out the time to fill before DA4 comes out. (!!!) You'll want to subscribe if you haven't already! Once this "main" story is over, I'll post a new chapter with an update to the new bits that take place during the stretch and once the new game comes out. You won't want to miss the ending! 
> 
> AND - AND - WOW! Thank you SO MUCH for over 200 kudos! That means I will be rewriting a chapter from Lissa's perspective into Solas' perspective. I'm pretty sure I know which one you'll want, but I haven't gotten there yet, heehee. But I'm open to suggestions! Which chapter would you like to see from inside Solas' mind? 
> 
> THANK YOU ALL for sticking with me, and for your sweet words. <3 I really hope you like this chapter. ;-) It's a tease. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Lissa in Ferelden garb.

Solas was enjoying his mock servant-hood. He was granted access to portions of the Estate most people avoided, better able to determine the origins of his _da’len_. What sort of life had she lived before being dragged away to the Circle? Was it happy? How old was she when she came into her magic? How did the Trevelyans feel about Mages? As he perused the estate, he found signs of a family steeped in tradition, extraordinarily devout to the Chantry. Andrastian statues, copies of the Chant, and Chantry symbols of some kind were found in nearly every room, even adorning the walls of the servants’ quarters. There was even a separate parsonage for visiting members of the Chantry. When Lissa had said her family was religious, he had no idea they were so staunch. No wonder they were on a first-name basis with several of the clergy.

Perhaps, in some strange way, it was best Lissa was forced into the Circle. Here it seemed her only options were to be wed to a Templar or join the Chantry sisters herself. He rankled at the thought. To think of such a curious mind forced into a singular line of thinking, to see such beautiful potential wasted was a bitter thought.

So far he had gathered little about the bride-to-be, aside from that she was Orlesian and extremely particular. But that he already knew. Why else would someone drag their entire household staff to handle a wedding? After dinner, he was sure he would learn something of greater value, once the servants dipped into the leftover wine and their lips were looser.

It was time to serve dinner, and he made his way towards the dining hall. He should not be far from the Inquisitor, being her personal servant.  The thought curved his lip into a crooked grin. In the kitchen, the Orlesian servants moved about like a well-trained army, filing in one after the other, each carrying a tray of mouthwatering food to the guests. Following the train of delicacies, he slipped into the dining room.

Everyone was seated down the length of a long, smooth table. Tall, intricately carved chairs marked each seat and ornate candelabras stood at the thirds of the table. It was a regal spread, and he somewhat regretted not being able to partake. But he had a goal in mind, and so far his plan was working. He spotted Lissa’s copper hair quickly, and moved to wait along the wall behind her, watching from the shadows. She was seated between their ambassador and commander, across from a young man with curly red hair that was no doubt her brother. _Lissa must be very pleased to see him_. Though he knew she was anticipating catching up with her brother, it seemed his Orlesian betrothed had no intention of letting anyone else speak for the evening. From the moment he entered the room till now, her jaw had been flapping beneath her gold mask, droning on about the details of the wedding on which, of course, she and her family had spared no expense. But he was also near enough of the kitchens to catch words from the staff. The servants that bustled in and out of the kitchen held back no words on his account, and so he was pleased with his arrangement.

Solas listened intently, studying the mannerisms of each at the table, noting the order in which they had been seated. Lady Trevelyan, by Renee he recently learned, was at the opposite end of where her husband, Lord Geoffrey Trevelyan, sat at the head. On the Lady’s left was Serene, then her son and some of his companions. On her right sat Cullen, then Lissa, then Josephine. Solas did not miss several glances of meaning shot between the Ambassador and the Herald’s mother. What were they up to?

“Lissa, it has been so long since we’ve had you here. And now to have the whole family? It reminds me of older times.” Lady Trevelyan made a subtle gesture from the wrist, and her wine glass was immediately filled be an attentive servant.

“How old _were_ you when you came into magic?” the Antivan asked, tilting her head.

Lissa started to speak, but her mother cut her off with an exasperated, rasping huff that grated on his nerves. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe it. Only eight years old when we knew for sure, though the Enchanter told us she’d been using it for much longer than that. She had just been keeping it from us.”

One half of his lip curled in a snarl. _I can only imagine why_.

“Poor girl was born with weak eyes, I’m afraid. But apparently she used that magic somehow. Of course, we had no idea she was a Mage until the stable fire.”

Lissa shrunk in her chair, pushing the food around her plate with sudden disinterest.

“A stable fire?” Josephine gasped, oblivious to Lissa’s discomfort in her hunger for a juicy tale.

Renee sipped from her goblet, nodding emphatically as she swallowed. “Mmm, yes. Nearly caught her and Rupert both in it. I was already destined to lose one child to magic; I’m glad it did not claim two.”

The statement rankled him, and his gut burned with injustice. Were this another world, magic would be as common as breath! And here it was being treated like a curse, and her daughter with it. It must have irritated the Commander as well, for her huffed as if clearing his throat, and obviously changed the subject.

“Rupert, what made you decide to join the Templars?”

The young man’s eyes darted to his mother briefly, skimming over his sister before he replied. “Well, I’ve always been around the Chantry, but clergy work wasn’t for me. I’d never live it down if Lissa saw me in one of those hats.” Lissa chuckled, earning a disapproving glare from her pious mother. “I wanted to help people, protect them. The Order seemed the best fit.”

“A noble cause,” the former Knight-Commander approved with a nod of his blonde head.

“The Maker truly works in mysterious ways,” Renee added somberly. “What was a great sacrifice and trial, nearly losing two children to magic, turned into a blessing. The entire event traumatized Rupert greatly, but he let it strengthen him.” She clenched her fist until her knobby knuckles trembled. “He so desperately wanted to prevent other families from having to live through a disaster like that.”

Again she accused her daughter like she was some sort of tyrant. Had she no thought for the young girl whose aptitude for magic might have startled her? And without parents teaching her how to use this gift, how was she to know? It was their own handicap that put her at a disadvantage.

Rupert started with a shake of his head. “It’s not quite as traumatic as mother makes it.”

Renee huffed, fanning herself. “Rupert, when you have to sacrifice a child to the Maker’s will, then you can judge how traumatizing it is.” Her slender fingers reached with a stiff poise to catch a fluffed pastry from a passing tray. “But for the Maker and Andraste, we are willing to suffer such hardship.”

Harship! Oh, he would laugh and rebuke her false sense of piety were he not bound to this ruse. How wretched to ignore true hardship when it was all around her and then claim righteousness. To have no care for her own daughter … his anger abated for a moment, cooling to make way for a knot of sympathy to twist in his gut.

Da’len … How hurt she must be to be so little regarded by her own kin, made to feel like a monster for her differences. A sharp pain stung inside his chest. He, too, knew that pain. He was familiar with the rejection of his kin. He understood, and for a moment, wondered with a curious hope if she could understand him.

Apparently, he was not the only one to notice Lissa’s discomfort. He caught the Commander leaning close, their shoulders almost touching as he bent down for a whisper. Lissa’s shoulders bounced in a quiet chuckle, and the Commander grinned crookedly. His success gave him confidence, and he continued in a private conversation in hushed tones. It rankled him deeply, stirring a boiling jealousy in his core. How dare he think he understood her! Their Commander knew nothing of his _da’len_ compared to him. He did not know how she sought out the Fade when she needed comfort, or that the sound of rain would put her to sleep, or that crystal grace soothed her nerves? Had he been the one on the battlefield, scooping her battered form from the chaos? Had _he_ been the one to heal her broken body, washing away the dried blood, bathing her down, and setting bones, or chasing away the demons of her nightmares? _No_. _He_ was the one who called for the rain to pepper her tent when she tossed and turned. _He_ was the one who eased her pain, the only one who could control his anchor. _He_ understood her. Not him.

“Well, despite your emotional ordeal, you seem to be doing rather well,” Josephine complimented, ever the diplomat.

“Yes! Indeed! We are blessed beyond what we deserve. The Maker always rewards his sacrificial faithful.”

Solas could only see the back of her head, but he was certain Lissa interjected a subtle eye roll.

“To think! My Mage daughter could find a better place to serve than the Circle. And she is called Herald, and Inquisitor. She could be the most effective servant of man. What Mage could want for more?”

His jaw clenched and his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth as he held back so many words.

“Lovingly, mother, I must disagree. For one, I know a very influential Mage who would be satisfied with nothing less than world conquest,” she chuckled, an obvious reference to Vivienne. “Magic was made to serve man. But the person who wields it has every right to free will as anyone else. For magic to serve, someone must be its master.”

He straightened, proud of the defiance and wisdom his pupil shown.

“I would have to agree, Lady Trevelyan,” Cullen butted in, ever eager to show how he sided with the Inquisitor. “Much like a Templar’s sword, it is of no use if one does not master its art. Lissa’s skill makes her master,” his eyes rested on her, softening gently with admiration, “but it is her kindness that makes her servant.”

Solas felt his jaw tense, the rigid ropes of poise and self-composure being strummed upon with tempting force. It stung that he had not the opportunity to use his perfectly crafted words to say the same. He reminded his face not to grimace and settled on a severe glower, burning with a cold fire that he hoped the Commander would feel as it bore into the back of his curly head.

Renee’s lips thinned as they curled into a sly grin, and her eyes glinted with a steely victory. What was she working? “So,” he voice was honeyed and sweet, a stark contrast to her sharp and straight demeanor, “my Lissa blossomed into a kind woman? Could the Maker have truly blessed me with a daughter both beautiful and kind?” Her hawkish gaze rested heavily on Cullen, demanding an answer.

The former Templar hesitated, gathering his nerve with a cool drink, no doubt to soothe the sudden sweat that glinted off his wide forehead. “It – it would seem you are so blessed, M’lady,” Cullen confessed in a breathy tone that made Solas’ lip curl. Cullen’s eyes held Lissa’s, the crow’s-feet softening in thick admiration. He could abide it no longer. With a sudden snatch, Solas had one of the silver pitchers of water and crossed the room to stand behind his _da’len_.

“Your water, Inquisitor,” he offered quietly, slipping his arm deliberately between them as he filled her glass.

Lissa’s upturned her face to thank him, almond eyes unusually dull with weariness. He did not miss her untouched plate of food. Had she not said how much she anticipated her mother’s roast druffalo? Was it the superstitious prejudices, the feeling of being tossed about in a political tug of war, or the fact that it had been prepared by servant’s hands that culled her appetite? Despite her practiced art of poise, her back straight and her face neutral, he could feel the nervous energy rippling off her in tangible waves, washing over him in an unsteady beat.

He retreated back to wall, but not without a discreet squeeze of encouragement on her shoulder. On his way back to the shadows, he stopped a servant and whispered a directive. The servant nodded eagerly, scuttling away to complete his mission. With the first part of his plan in action, Solas leaned against the back wall and shut his eyes. He took a slow, measured breath, drinking in everything around him, allowing his energy reserves to stir from their slumber, until his diaphragm had stretched to its fullest. _Still weak_. But he only needed a portion of his power. As he exhaled, he willed the energies in the air to change. They hummed in response, vibrating in anticipation. Not one of the servants or any of his party noticed, save for Lissa. She sat up straighter, curious as ever, and carefully lifted her gaze to the ceiling, scanning for an answer.

“So what are you going to do once the Inquisition is over?” her brother asked.

Lissa quickly snapped back to the discussion at the table, her brows cinching as she considered it. “I don’t have the luxury of planning anything until Corypheus is stopped.” Her reply was cool but sincere, and the subtext was clear: _she did not know if she would live to see the end of it_. Their comrades around the table stilled solemnly. The first crack of thunder broke the fragile silence, and quickly following the dying growl was the first trickle of rain. It rinsed over the estate in a steady hush, the rushing wash of rain creating a soothing backdrop to the tense conversation. The ripples of tension surging in Lissa’s mana ebbed, a calm flow resuming eased by the sound of rain. He grinned.

“But who can say what will happen?” she added brightly. “That sort of talk isn’t fit for a wedding dinner. You should consider yourself incredibly fortunate to have found someone else to share your life with.” Her voice was sincere, but her eyes were empty with longing. Perhaps she knew the same thing he did: there were no happy endings for heroes.

“What _eez_ _zees_?” Serene gasped, eyeing a handful of servants carrying tall vases overflowing with fragrant bouquets. She oohed and awed, clamoring her rambling praises over their beauty. But it was not Serene’s eyes he hoped to soothe.

“What beautiful flowers.” Lissa breathed, drinking in the scent of them. “My favorite.”

“What a thoughtful gift, _Inqueezeetor_ ,” the bride tittered behind her mask.

“Yes, quite,” Josephine added with a strained smile.

The conversation continued on, each politely continuing to fill any awkward silences despite their lack of interest. When the storm reached its zenith, thunder shaking the walls, Lissa made a gesture, calling her ‘servant’ to aid her. “If you’ll excuse me, I should like to retire for the evening. I so look forward to the ceremony tomorrow.” He padded across the floor to her side and was annoyed that she still had not eaten, despite his efforts to comfort her. She needed nourishment, especially with the mark slowly tearing away at her hand. The stress of present company must have soured her appetite.  
  
“Inquisitor?” he questioned, one eyebrow raised for her permission.  
  
When she grinned, a mischievous twinkle sparkled in her eyes. “Thank you, Solas. I should like that in my quarters.” And with a discreet whisper, he added, “But get extra. I’m starving.”

Well, perhaps her appetite had not been entirely squelched. “By your leave, Inquisitor.” He did as ordered, taking her plate back to the kitchen and filling it up with everything he thought she would enjoy, and the things he knew she needed most, carefully considering the needs of her mortal body. The portions sufficiently replenished, he made a careful walk back to her quarters, mindful of the nearly overflowing plate. He raised a hand to rap his knuckles against the door, but before he knocked, the door flung open. Lissa yanked him inside.  
  
“Inquisitor?”

She had already changed from her Ferelden garb and was dressed in tight riding breeches that hugged the curve of her thighs, teasing his eyes to follow the outline of her shape. A stiff leather vest was cinched tightly around her waist, and she flung on a woolen cloak to complete the ensemble.  
  
He frowned. “Why the urgency? Are you leaving?”

She smiled brightly at his confusion. “Change of scenery. Can you bring the food?”

“Yes.” Curiosity sufficiently engaged, he shadowed her with his eyes as she rushed around the room. She heaved open the window, letting the rain-cooled air rush inside. She tossed him a cloak, and he draped it over him and the plate of food. Finally, she tucked her hair under her hood and slipped a brown paper box under one arm. She leaned outward, spying left then right, and looked over her shoulder coyly. “Hurry.” She hopped up on the window sill, swung one leg out, then the other, and was gone.

He followed, unaware of the grin spreading his lips. His feet raced against the sodden ground. It was easy to ignore the squelch of mud between his toes, the rain that pelted down. He was careful to guard the rain from soaking her dinner. But it was his rain, after all, and it listened well. She wended a way between hedges and fence rows in a path she much have known from memory. Finally, the scent of damp hay and old, charred wood became stronger. She ducked under an awning next to the barn in what must have been an old storage shed of some kind. But half was charred and broken, crumpled in long-ignored shambles. _The damning barn fire, perhaps?_

Finally out the rain, Lissa shed her cloak and shook the stray droplets from the curls that bounced in her face. “I never thought I’d see this place again,” she sighed, raking a wistful gaze over the tiny enclosure. “It seems smaller than I remember.” She chuckled. “Although I guess I’m the one who’s gotten bigger. I know there’s one around her somewhere…” Her hands pushed aside boxes and broken boards, pushing aside mounds of dry, sweet hay in her search. “Ah! Here it is.” She pulled out an old, cracked lantern, dust and age fogging the glass. She carefully reached in to light it, but the wick was shriveled and long without oil. She grimaced.

“Allow me. It remembers that it once bore flame.” With a gesture, the green flicker of veilfire crackled to life, licking across the inside of the lantern hungrily. She kicked the dry hay into a large heap and sighed pleasantly.

“This is a much better place to enjoy dinner. I use to sneak out here when I was a child, usually at night when my nursemaid had fallen asleep. I’d come out here and listen to the shuffle of horses and let the crickets sing me to sleep. It was always my favorite when it rained.” She pointed upward to an old, battered plow now hammered into a panel to block a wide hole in the roof. The rain hit the metal, each drop a soothing note in a lulling melody.

“I can see the appeal.” Gently he set the plate of food on a wooden crate as a makeshift table and then bowed. “I will leave you to your dinner.”

“Oh, I …” She cleared her throat and swallowed. “I was rather hoping you’d join me. I wanted to make up for ignoring you earlier, and I feel rather bad about you having to play this charade. I missed your conversation at dinner.”

“I doubt my input would be well appreciated.”

“I would have.” A few breaths filled the silence, almost unheard for the torrent of rain. “Besides,” her mouth could not resist a sheepish grin, “there’s plenty for two.”

This has been her plan all along. How amusing it would be to tell her he had called the rain just for her. Would she shrink from his admission? Or would she enjoy it? He played coy. “Is that an order, Inquisitor?” He grinned slyly.

She laughed, each undulation a note in a beautiful melody. When she shook her head shyly, the copper curls bounced giddily. She plucked at the hay beneath her, twiddling it between the pads of her fingers. Her golden eyes, bright and open again, made a slow path to his gaze, holding his eyes expectantly.

“Does it need to be?”

When his reply came, it was gentle and low. “No.”

“Good.” She smiled, her teeth gripping her full bottom lip as if to keep a smile from splitting her face. He took up a seat, plopping down in the hay next to her.  
  
“Oh! First, I have a question: how do you say ‘frilly cakes’ in Elvhen?”

An odd topic of discussion, but he obliged. “The translation would not be direct, but you could say –“

She laughed, offering up the paper box she had carried. He opened the lid, revealing half a dozen small Orlesian cakes. His eyes widened, and a genuine smile spread his lips.

“I remember you saying you liked them. They’re probably for tomorrow, but they had enough in the kitchen to feed our standing army.”

He had no words, which was a rare occasion. She had remembered some off-handed comment of his. Where they had been? Ah, yes, the Storm Coast, chatting with Blackwall about times long past. He did not even realize she had been listening. He should have given her more credit. But that she remembered, and sought to do something for him. It was a trivial thing, really. But it was the selfless, thoughtfulness that stole his words. How had a spirit like hers developed in a world such as this?

Suddenly bashful, her cheeks blossomed a delicate pink, matching the slash of rose lips that decorated her soft face. “I hope you like them.”

“I – yes,” he decided to be succinct, words having been clouded with a rush of thoughts.

Her eyes dared to each his, her golden orbs open, vulnerable, and _wanting_.  
  
“Good.”

 

*   *   *

 

Dinner long gone, desserts thoroughly enjoyed, the mages had worn out the night with their easy conversation. He learned more of her life before the Circle, reviewed the conjugations and tenses of Elvish, and discussed the finer points of mana distribution. Somehow they had made full circle, coming back to her life here, how she felt about meeting her family again, and her thoughts on her brother’s upcoming union.

“I … want to be happy for him. I just don’t know how I feel about Serene. I mean … Orlesian?” she chuckled. “Well, maybe I should concede that you’re right.” A long sigh stole from her lips. “Weddings are pointless, political maneuvers.” It was funny how much she talked when she was tired, how openly honest.

He chuckled. “Is that what made you upset?”

“Yes,” she frowned. “Varric is right; you’re so glum and grim all the time. But then, unfortunately, you’re often right. I would just be nice to think happiness is still possible for people out there. That I’m saving the world for something _good_.”

He leaned back on his elbows, looking up to watch lazy droplets drip down from the rafters. “I never said happiness wasn’t possible.”

She tossed a handful of hay at him. “You _did!_ You’re so anti-happiness, it isn’t even funny.” She grimaced, mocking him. “’Weddings are terrible, marriage is pointless, I have no friends, blah blah.’”

He brushed the hay from his tunic, raising an eyebrow at her clowning. “I said marriages are usually the stage for political maneuvers. That is entirely different from marriage.” She yawned, dismissing his explanation. He justified his response. “I have seen many weddings in the Fade, yes. But I have also seen many _unions_ , families started in a simple home in front of a fire with nothing more than a promise exchanged.”  
  
“Oh. Well that’s … good to know.” She yawned again, and he only now realized the lateness of the hour. How had he not realized how many hours had passed? He had wanted to search the Fade, but he had been … _distracted_. She laid her head back, eyes fluttering in her struggle to stay awake.

“Sleep, Inquisitor,” he wished softly. “You have an important day ahead of you.” He reached for her cloak and draped it over her form.

She sighed softly, not bothering to cover her gaping mouth as she yawned. She nestled deeper into the pile, drawing the cloak up to her chin. Her lashes fluttered delicately against her cheeks, now soft with sleep. He spared a moment to take her in, his eyes raking over her features. She fascinated him so! This world was bleak, devoid of the beauties he once knew. It was crippled and sick, a broken, lifeless, existence. Suspicious hatred ruled where curiosity and wisdom once flourished. _And yet_ … She was a bright spot in this otherwise desolate plane, exhibiting a spirit not unlike Elvhen of old. _A mortal, and a human, at that._ In all that he had witnessed, she was unique. Did she, too, feel alone in this world? She murmured in her sleep, and her mouth turned in a grin.

He reached out to brush a stubborn flick of hair from her eyes. The slip of hair was a silken, copper ribbon that made him curious to feel the rest of her hair. He rolled the curl between the pads of his fingers absently, wondering how it would feel to rake through the rest of her waves, have her hair catch his fingers captive, tangled up in their silky lengths. As he swept it aside, his fingertips followed the curve of her face with a pale stroke. Her petal-pink lips hummed softly with pleasure at his touch. A silent, ragged sigh slipped from his lips as he slowly dragged his thumb across her freckle-dusted cheek.

“Sleep well, _da’len_.” He drew back his hand reluctantly and rolled over to his indent in the straw. As he settled himself in for what remained of the night, she stirred, her voice a sleepy slur.

“You too, Solas.”


	28. And They Danced

The bubbling, carefree laughter of children echoed in the distance. It rang, clear light, across the expanse of the dream, carried on the whims of sleep. Solas grinned. He followed the sound, his feet passing over familiar cobblestones along the Trevelyan estate. They were not quite as worn, and the hedges were not quite as tall. The trellises were nearly bare by comparison. Just ahead, two small forms dashed across the fields, racing towards the barn. With a thought, he was there waiting for them. Gone was the scent of long-burnt wood and ash. The building was whole and smell of new pine and old hay.

The giggling neared. Though a loose board in the right hand wall crawled a young girl, about seven or eight for a human, were he to guess. _No_ , he reminded himself, _she is eight_. _She was eight years when they discovered her magic._ Her head poked through, revealing a head of unruly copper waves that stopped at her shoulders. Dirt smudges covered her smiling, freckled face and strands of hay and dried grass stuck out of her hair. As she dragged herself up, he saw he dress covered with dirt at the knees. Solas grinned as compassionate warmth tingled his chest. This was Lissa, his _da’len_ , in years gone by. She held the same mischievous glint in her golden eyes, and her teeth bit her lip in anticipation as she did so often now when she did not think he was watching her. The scuffle of boots rushed by, and she sucked in a breath, pursing her face.

“I know you’re here somewhere!” her brother taunted.

Her victory betrayed her with a snicker. The boots stopped.

“I hear you!”

She gasped, desperate to find a new hiding place. She searched under the workbench, in a too small box, but nothing must have met her particular standards. As she craned back her head, she peered up into the loft where piles of fresh straw were stored. Adventurous as ever, the girl began to climb, first onto a box, then jumping to the work table, until she pulled herself up onto one of the rough support beams. “Ouch!” She sucked her finger to soothe the splinter, but her outburst revealed her position.

“A ha!”

She redoubled her efforts, stretching, _stretching_ for the top. The door burst open with a bang. Her brother rushed in, clutching her around the ankle. “Gotcha!”

She groaned, kicking her captured foot, refusing to lose their little game. What fistfuls of straw should could grasp, she tossed in his face. But her brother was stronger, older, and he tugged harder. Clawing at the loft, she fell, coming down onto her chin with a crack. Her body bent backward, her foot kicking out to catch the nearby hanging lantern. She landed on top of her brother in a dazed heap. The lantern crashed to the floor, scattering glass and oil over the loose straw. Hungry flames surged along the trail, greedily lighting the straw as the oil burned.

Rupert lifted his head, moaning in confusion. “Lissa?” he mewed. “Lissa!” He shook his sister, but her small frame flopped like a doll. A thin line of blood seeped from her jaw, and he gaped at the odd angle of her foot.

He tried, again and again, to rouse her while the fire began to encircle them. Solas kneeled, bending down to watch in pained sympathy. It had not been magic that caused the barn fire; and it had not been her mistake that sent her away. It had been accident the entire time. He sighed, his brows knitting in compassion.

Finally, she stirred. Thick lashed fluttered along her cheeks. “Ow…” she groaned.

“Lissa! We have to go!”

The heat and smoke sent them into a fit of cough, thick tears rolling down their faces. Overhead, an ominous crack sounded, sending a flaming, split beam on top of them. In a desperate reaction, Lissa outstretched her hands, and the magic responded. With like fire, she sent the beam flying away from them, though the wall and out into the field. Two farm hand stood, mouths agape and pails of water hanging limply from their arms.

Rupert, with the aid of the farm hands, helped his sister flee the burning barn while the farm hands cast hopeless amounts of water on the flames. The Trevelyan parents came running, facing twisted in shock, then to anger and fingers flew in terrified blame towards the girl. The shouting could barely be heard over the roar of the fire. Servants scuttled away nervously, and even her nursemaid hesitated in treating the injuries of a Mage.

 

Not but a few hours passed when a friend of the family, a Chantry mother, arrived. A handful of Templars followed on her heels, a Mage from the Circle quietly fenced between them. As soon as she caught sight of them, Lissa clung to her brother’s arm. The mother knelt before the young girl. “We’re going to take you to where you can learn magic properly. To serve the Maker.” It was ‘to protect her family.’ And didn’t she love her family? Didn’t she want them protected?

“You want your family to be safe, don’t you, child?”

She nodded slowly. But what choice did she have? The Mage stepped forward at the behest of the Templars. The fear in their eyes over a young child was astonishing, infuriating. How had magic become so feared?

Young Lissa, blinking back the tears in her eyes, took the Mage’s hand. And just like that, she was off to live a life of seclusion and numbing isolation. How early the oppression and slavery began in her life. He wished he could have been there to stop it. Had he been more powerful … But would the Lissa now be the same as then? Was it perhaps her trials that gave her compassion, deepened her empathy?

Even in the Fade, the warmth of morning light caressed his face. It was time to rise.

His eyes opened, and for a moment, he took in the stillness of morning. The drifting barn dust fluttered across the rays of light, lighting up like fireflies. The horses nickered and shuffled, restless to begin their day of labor. The scent of hay was sweet, almost too sweet, and the air was crisp and cool.

There was an odd weight on his chest. He lifted his head, peering down the length of his chest. Lissa’s arm had draped over him in the night, claiming him, as if her sleeping mind needed to know he was still there. Deep in sleep, she looked so much like the young child he had seen in his dreams. Cheeks soft and pink, and a smudge of dirt stretched across her imperfect nose. Her long hair braid had come lose, wrapping her in hay-ridden ribbons of ruby. He rose, mindful of his sleeping charge, and gently placed her arm aside. A jagged sigh slipped from her lips as they curved pleasantly. He grinned.

“Sleep while you can, _da’len_.”

 

*   *   *

 

The sharp light of morning cut through the holes in the barn, beams of light that shone in her eyes. She stretched the length of her body, indulging in an obnoxious yawn. After a heavy sigh, she sat up and wiped the sleep from her eyes. A nagging thought tugged on her drowsy awareness. There was something important about today. Her mind snapped to sudden attention.

“The wedding!”

Flinging aisde the cloak, she stumbled to her feet. She raced around the barn, gathering all the trinkets she had brought. She paused, noting some new addition. One of the vases, overflowing with her favorite flowers, sat next to her pile of hay. She spared a moment, kneeling to take in the heady scent of them, stealing a pause to caress their velvet petals. Who had known she was here? Her eyes led her to a second dip in the hay. Her eyes traced the dip, imagining the slender form that had slept there. Tentatively, she reached out, pressing her palm into the space. _Still warm_. A heat spread throughout her chest. _He actually stayed_. Her face split in a smile without her permission. Did that mean the flowers …?

No, it couldn’t have been. It would have been too perfect.

Still, it was a secret indulgence to pretend he fancied her. With a girlish giggle, she scurried back to the house, laden with her burdens.

 

 

“Did you sleep in a barn?!” Josephine fussed. Her rich skin was suddenly pale at the sight.

“Well, actually …”

One slender hand whipped up to command her pause. “No! I don’t really want to know. Oh, Andraste.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and whispered something like a prayer or a curse. “I do have to make you presentable.”

Lissa bit her lip in amusement. Josephine’s eyebrows began a familiar twitch, something that only happened when she was particularly taxed or annoyed. Lissa was betting on both. Her pitch, too, rose to a fast-paced shrill. Josephine had crashed through ‘nervous’ and flew right into ‘near hysterics.’

“Josie, you _may_ have mistaken me for the bride.”

She rounded on her, a look a fury burning in her panicked eyes. Lissa regretted her comment instantly, and longed to shrink back to the barn.

“You are the _Inquisitor!_ You can never be sure of whom you will meet. Now come _here_.”

The tasks of preparing a Lady for a wedding were more numerous than she imagined, and each one was performed at a painfully rapid pace. Spun in circles, she was stripped of her clothes and dumped into a too-hot bath. Hissing through her teeth, she secretly let ice spread from her finger tips until the water was no longer scalding. Josephine and a handmaid worked her heavy curtain of hair into a lather, raking through it with too much hurry. She winced, but did not complain. Not with that look on Josie’s face. After being nearly drowned, they had washed the soap and copious amount of hay from her hair. As the handmaid combed her hair next to the fire, Josephine went to dressing her. Hair still damp, but no time to dry, it went up on her head in a tight, boring bun. Her hair was scraped so tightly against her scalp, she thought she might lose the ability to blink. The whirlwind of dark hair and puffy gold sleeves finally stopped to give her a long, scowling consideration. After a final puff of powder across her nose, Josephine declared her ‘done,’ and she felt a bit like a plate of roast druffalo. Lissa blinked away the fine bits of powder floating in the air and stood to look in the mirror.

“My, Josephine,” she gaped, hands travelling slowly across the bodice of the robes. Only an hour ago, she had been covered in hay and barn dust, her hair twisted and tangled around itself. Now she wore a set of thick robes in simple design, fitting for the somber mood of a Chantry wedding. And her hair had been tamed in a large, tight chignon at the top of her scalp. She turned towards the Antivan and smiled. “and you said you can’t work magic.”

Her advisor chuckled wearily. “Well, at least now I can rest easier knowing you won’t embarrass the entirety of the Inquisition.”

Lissa grinned wryly. “Just wait till the dancing.”

A sharp look with a cunning glint met hers. “Oh, I have that already taken care of.” In the distance, a droning bell tolled the time. Josephine gasped. “Half past! We must leave – now!”

 

 *   *   *

 

The wedding was both more interesting and more boring than she ever anticipated. The most difficult part was the monotone recitation by the Chantry brother, and the long lineage being read to authenticate their titles. Why did it matter where they came from? It didn’t matter to their marriage if they were common or not. More than once, Josephine thumped her on the knee and drew her back to the waking world. Which was a great pity. Her dreams had been far more interesting as of late.

But there were precious moments that stole her attention as a great sigh built up in her wanting chest. The look of adoration in her brother’s eyes as they caught Serene’s behind her lace mask. It was almost painful to watch the exchange at times, realizing her place in the world. Before the Circles fell, Mages were prohibited from marrying or having children. And now that they were down, it seemed the world was intent on keeping it that way. Her thumb traced the bare spot on her ring finger, watching as they exchanged bands. Who would have a Mage as a wife? Let alone the Herald and Inquisitor? She let slip a quiet sigh as the mother announced, “May I present Lord and Lady Rupert Trevelyan.”

A waves of chaste applause washed over the audience, and a few tears rolled lazily down her cheeks. As Rupert and his bride passed, he paused just enough to wink and whisper, “Now for the fun part.”

 

 

Warm torchlight flickered in happy bursts, dipping and flashing as elegantly as the dancers on the floor. The gilded figures spun and swayed. The mass of people jumped, dipped, clapped and bobbed like one ocean wave to a rousing folk song. Wide-eyed, she watched with not a small amount of envy as they danced. It seemed so energetic! And she was certain she’d end up in an undignified heap the moment she tried.

Josephine twirled over, stray cocoa strands sticking up and out, her cheeks dark pink with exertion.

“Oh! Inquisitor! I had no idea that your traditional dances could be so invigorating.”

Lissa chuckled. Truthfully, neither had she. “Well, I’m glad to see you are enjoying yourself.”

The advisor looked her up and down with disapproval. “And _you_ are sitting down doing nothing.”

Lissa crossed one leg over the other, planting herself firmly in her seat. “We’ve been over this already. I’ve never danced. I’d make the Inquisition look bad.” When dealing with the political advisor, Lissa found it helpful to play to Josephine’s strengths. Admitting that she did not want to look ridiculous personally was not nearly as valuable as positioning the social damages the Antivan would have to clean up if she failed.

It usually worked.

Wine obviously loosening her stiff opinions, Josephine grabbed her hands and dragged her from the chair.

“Oh, no – I really don’t think—“ before she could finish her protest, arms linked with hers, and she was washed away in the twirling tide. Thankfully the jig was simple and her feet found a rhythm. _Step, step, skip. Step, step, step, skip, twirl, clap, hop!_ Eventually, once her mind stopped burning to memorizing each step, she enjoyed herself. A giddy surge long buried began to surface in her chest. And she laughed. She felt freer than she had in a very long time.

But something was … odd. There was a weight on her shoulder she could not shake. It was persistent, constant, but not demanding. It was strangely comfortable, but weighty. It followed her as she weaved and bobbed between the bodies, reminding her of its presence. But what _was_ it?

Then, as she spun, her gaze was snatched by a pair of watchful eyes lingering in the shadows along the wall. His were sharp, dangerously possessive, protective. But as her eyes met his, they softened, and she thought she caught a glimpse of a smile. A knot twisted in her throat, and before should could study his eyes any longer, she was twirled away into the press.

The music died, replaced by generous applause and cheers. Lissa joined in, clapping until her palms stung. She spared a moment to catch her breath, anticipating the next row. But something was different. The charged buzz fizzled away, and the entire mood shifted as the strings began to play a charming, somber melody. The dancers began to move around her, but not as before. The music’s tempo did not increase. Instead, the dancers gravitated towards pairs, linking bodies intimately. Their feet took elegant steps, their partners sending them away in graceful spins. Dread rose in her throat, a stinging bile. This was _not_ the dance for her. Their twirls became dizzying in her anxiety, and she made a sudden dash for the tables. Just was she nearly to the refuge, that safe, solid table that had been her company for most of the evening, a pair of puffy sleeves intercepted her.

“No.” It jumped from her mouth instinctively. But then, most life-saving maneuvers did not require much forethought.

Josephine clicked her tongue. “Ah ah! We _must_ have you practice here.”

She looked at her like she had gone daft. “Practice? For what?” What terrible torture did this woman have planned for her?

She was met with an aghast expression. “For the Empress’ Ball! Serene is Orlesian, remember? For the rest of the night, Orlesian dances will be the flavor of the evening.”

The bile rose to sting her throat again. It had taken her the better part of the evening to leave her chair, and the other was spent in learning the most basic steps. And just as she began enjoying herself, it would seem the Maker had yet another test for her. _Oh, Andraste_ , she mentally cursed. This required a measure of grace she did _not_ possess.

“But what about making the Inquisition look bad? Think of the letters, Josie. You’ll have quite a bit of paperwork on your hands.”

The woman scowled, and for a moment, she looked intimidating. “Better I deal with a handful of vassals than the entire court at the Winter Palace. Besides, play the fool here, you’ll get a dirty look and a threatening piece of paper. Fail before the Court, and you risk losing The Game.”

Still unfamiliar with the murderous undercurrents, she failed to see the difference. “And that would be bad?”

“It would spell your death! Trust me. You _must_ practice.”

Well, at least she could console herself that the clawing fear in her chest had not been unreasonable. It seems a misstep actually _could_ kill her. This was turning out to be such a wonderful evening.

Josephine must have seen the color drain from her face. “Don’t worry, Inquisitor. I’ve selected a partner who not only knows the dances, but hates them just as much as you do.” Her sing-song quality unnerved Lissa greatly.

Josephine turned, sending a bright smile and wave across the room. Lissa swallowed the knot in her throat, praying to the Maker the roiling churn of her gut would not make this more embarrassing than it already was. She strained to see the broad figure crossing the floor towards them, her stomach fluttering nervously with each of his steps.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen offered shyly, bowing a bit at the waist. “I feel you should know I perform my duty under protest,” he added through his teeth, sending a gaze as cool as a dull blade at the Antivan. But when he turned back to her, a crooked smile returned. His hair was freshly washed, curls less willing to lay limply against his scalp.

Gone was the intimidating armor, the iron shell that never let her forget he had once been a Templar. Now he wore simple breeches, fawn-colored leather that hugged the generous muscles of his thighs. Dark boots rose just above his knees, and a snug jerkin of gold brocade and leather cinched over a blousy shirt, revealing his trim torso and wide shoulders. Now, he was not the Commander. He was Cullen. Just a man. Why that suddenly made him more intimidating, she was unsure. But he did look rather dashing. Lissa smiled, eyeing him curiously.

“Cullen, did you _shave?_ ”

His sighed. Perhaps it wasn’t the first time he’d received the question that evening.

“It was heavily suggested by a rather insistent Advisor,” he groaned, throwing in an eye roll for good measure. Despite his aggravated tone, it didn’t stop a thick blush from darkening his now smooth face.

Lissa grinned. “At least I haven’t been the sole outlet for this Advisor’s insistence.”

“I’m standing right here, you know. Now, Commander, you’ve been through the dances?”

His smooth, scar-striped lips grimaced. “Madame Vivienne made certain I was sufficiently briefed.”

“Good. Herald?”

Josephine gestured to her pre-selected partner, and what semblance of peace she had gathered was shattered. What was she supposed to do? She felt her eyes go wide like an animal in a trap. Did she take the first step? She join hands with him? Did she wait? Oh, she was going to look like an idiot and she knew it. And now her poor Commander’s reputation was on the line.

“I feel I – I should apologize in advance, Commander.”

In rare form, the usually awkward Commander displayed calm confidence. He smiled at her, and his eyes held hers with command. “It’s just ‘Cullen,’ here.” His tone was soft, but his words insistent. He bowed from the waist, and extended a hand. “Apologize for what?”

For a moment, she had not the faintest idea. She focused on copying what the other ladies had done, slowly bending into an uncomfortable curtsy before resting her hand in his palm.

“I’m not certain yet, but perhaps a blanket statement will cover any faults I’m sure to enact.”

He pulled her against his sturdy chest and chuckled, a deep, resonating sound that vibrated against her chest. “It’s not as difficult as it looks,” he whispered in encouragement. “So long as I remember the steps,” he groaned. He drew her hand up and across his chest and placed it on his firm shoulder. One hand met hers, and his generous palm nearly swallowed hers. The other skimmed her waist, sliding around to brace her firmly. “Just follow me. Alright? Right foot first. My right!” he corrected, clearing his throat. “Your left,” he sighed. “Ready? And …. One,”

They were off, stepping into the twirling current of couples. Anxiety threatened freeze her more than any ice spell. What if she stepped on his feet? What if she tripped and landed in a heap, just to be trampled by a herd of heeled shoes? “ _Are my hands sweaty? Oh, they feel sweaty. Maker. He must think it so gross._ ”

Her Commander – no, Cullen – showed not a little skill on the floor. He sent her away in a dizzying twirl, and somehow managed to guide her teetering frame back to his waiting, supportive arms.

“Are you as nervous as I am?” His voice was quiet and hesitant, raw with sincerity. For the first time, she noticed a sheen to his broad forehead as sweat beaded on his brow.

“Probably much more, I imagine,” she admitted with a huff.

“Oh, I highly doubt that.” Both of his hands made a move to her waist until each settled on her rather wide hips. A sudden pang of worry stung her chest, suddenly self-conscience of the abundant softness around her middle – too much, the unkind would say – that sometimes gathered into unpleasant lumps as she moved. But were it repulsive, he showed no sign. She took a cue from the other fair-dressed maidens and slipped her hands around the nape of his neck. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing along the thick, corded column of neck.

“You – I –“ he stammered, sparing a moment to glance over her shoulder. Slowly his eyes met hers again. “Just hold on.”

Suddenly, her feet lost contact with ground. A surprised gasp jumped from her lips as she and the other women were raised above their partner’s heads. Lissa thought they looked like a pretty flock of birds. Thankfully, her flight was short and her partner strong. He lowered back down in the fashion of the dance, exaggerated on the landing, dragging her hips along the solid length of his chest until her toes kissed the ground.

For some reason, the entire temperature of hall seemed to raise by several degrees. And despite her gnawing nerves, she found an odd sense of comfort wrapped up in his arms. He had always done his duty to protect her as her Commander. But now, as a _man_ …

There was no mystery with him. He was open and raw. He was warm, and earthy, easily read and fiercely loyal. She knew that what she read on his face was truth, and what she saw unsettled her.  For the first time, duties and uniforms cast aside, she realized: Cullen was a good man.

She needed to unscramble her thoughts, untangle the confusing emotions bumping into each other within her chest.

“What were you saying, Commander?” she asked before being dipped backward, deeply enough to threaten to unseat her bun.

As he bent over her, he grinned crookedly and insisted. “It’s _Cullen,_ Lissa.” And the way her said her name did strange things to her gut. Things that made her uncomfortable, because she _knew_ what it meant. But was it genuine attraction, or was she projecting her long unresolved feelings for Solas here? Her insides quivered. If she were here, dancing with Solas … if she were wrapped up in his lean arms and pressed against him, wouldn’t she feel the same? With a strong arm, he reeled her back up to him, his eyes sparkling down at her with raw enjoyment.

Suddenly, she felt so guilty and not a little confused.

Cullen was more observant than she gave him credit. He paused, watching her intently, genuine concern etching his masculine features. “Lissa, what’s wrong?”

She forced a grin. “I … think maybe my nerves are getting to me. That’s all.”

“Well, please …” he released her, gesturing towards the tables at the edge of the dance floor. One hand never left the small of her back as he guided her protectively through the twirling press.

The bench was solid, a stark contrast to her gossamer emotions.

“Are you feeling alright?” he questioned softly, with far too much care for their stations.

She swallowed. “I’ll be fine in a moment.”

“Inquisitor,” a voice nearly barked from behind, jarring her already scattered emotions. She turned, finding a stiff Solas give a curt bow. His steel-blue eyes were set sharply on Cullen.

Humor seemed to be her only outlet to release the frenzied nerves within her. “Please tell me you haven’t come to ask me to dance. You would reconsider, if you asked the Commander on the state of his toes.”

When his eyes rested on hers, the hard edges softened, and the knowing gaze of her friend returned. _Funny, though_ , she thought. They were familiar, yes. But something was different. She had spent an hour closely spying the eyes of her Commander, warm and open. There was no duality there, only a comforting simplicity. But not so with her _hah’ren_. Despite the softness of his gaze, even though she could count from memory the points of light as they bounced back at her, there was a hidden layer, a closed door.

His full lips curved in a crooked smile. “I’m sure I would enjoy dancing, but no; that is not why I’ve come.” He turned a sharp gaze on her partner. “Commander, you should know the servants have been unusually tight-lipped, even around me.”

Cullen straightened, and his brow furrowed, deepening the worried trench above his nose. “And this concerns you?”

Solas nodded. “I cannot say what it is, but I would recommend our soldiers remain alert.”

“Noted.” Cullen shifted, reluctantly standing from her side. “I’ll alert the men.” His heavy hand outstretched to squeeze her shoulder. She was certain she imagined it, but Solas’ frown seemed to deepen. “Be watchful. We mustn’t act like we think anything is wrong lest we lose an advantage. I’ll return, shortly.” He grinned, as if there were not a care in the world. “Hopefully, you’ll have recovered enough for the next dance.”

She thought she caught the slightest bulge in Solas’ temple as he tensed his jaw. As Cullen turned to leave, he left an intent gaze on their resident Fade expert. “Watch her,” he insisted, before shooting Lissa a warm look and slipping between the dancers.

The odd behavior of the servants must have been a genuine cause for concern. Her tutor was stiff and sharp, and in general appeared to be in a very bad mood.

“Do you really think there is cause for concern?”

“I would not suggest it otherwise.” He turned a cool, measuring gaze on her. She had not been on the discerning, sharp end of his gaze in sometime, and she forgot the prickling point of his stare. “You seem flushed, Inquisitor. Would you care for a drink?”

A nervous chuckled sawed out of her burning lungs. “You might be taking this ruse too seriously.”

His eyes flashed, like the gleam of a dagger, and he grinned. “Nonsense. I offer you a drink as a courtesy, not as a duty.”

She cleared her throat. “I – thank you, but I’m fine.”

A strained silence hung between them, punctuated by the shuffle of lace and brocade sweeping along the floor.

“It is interesting to see how dances have changed over the years,” he commented.

“Oh? Have you made dancing a study of yours as well?” she chuckled.

He turned, adopting his comfortable role of teacher in perfect stride. He straightened, slipping his hands behind his back and looking over the dance floor. It was no wonder the servants were tight-lipped around him. How Josephine had ever thought he could pass as a timid worker was beyond her. He looked out over the crowds with the confidence of _royalty_. A quiet elegance outlined his every subtle gesture. “When one studies a culture, to obtain a fuller picture, one must look at all its outlets. Dancing is the expression of joy, exuberance, passion, and romance. How it is adopted within a culture tells much about how its people express each.”

“Fascinating,” she breathed, watching him with awe. “One must wonder: what did you learn while watching tonight’s activities?”

He turned his gaze from the spinning crowd, settling her on her with a knowing gaze. “That I have yet a great deal to learn about you.”

Her? Her throat became dry, ashen. He wanted to know more about her?

She chuckled nervously. “I take it the Fade revealed no great mysteries about me?”

His lip quirked sideways. “Oh, I have learned a great deal about you during this trip. I’m rather glad you invited me.”

She was not so sure.

 

*    *   *

 

The evening passed in a cloud of hollow conversations floating in the background punctuated by bright moments of eating delicious Orlesian desserts. She was careful to slip away and share a portion with her hah’ren, and the stolen moment helped settle her unsure thoughts. As the guests gathered along the road to bid farewell to the bride and groom, Lissa insisted she be waiting at the end, the last in line to bid her brother farewell. Maker only knew how long it would be till she next saw him. She wanted it to last.

As the horse-drawn carriage clicked down the cobblestone path, her heart began a frantic beat. The carriage creaked as it bounced at the end of the path and met the jarring dirt road. _Almost here. Almost gone…_ She raised her hand to wave, and Rupert leaned out of the carriage to give her one last goodbye, their hands clasping for just a moment. She was nearly jerked away, her hand reluctant to let go of her one childhood hero. He smiled back, and watching the two of them waving goodbye to those that loved them most filled her heart to bursting.

_Goodbye, brother…_

The guests slowly dispersed, trickling back to the hall to enjoy more wine, desserts, and dancing. But her feet were planted. She would stay to watch their silhouette until it was lost in the cluster of trees, and then she would stay until the only sign of them was the bobbing point of light from the lantern darting in the black.

A parting sigh dragged from her lungs, and she tore her eyes from the distant blur that merged with the forest, and aimed her steps towards the hall.

A shriek fractured her parting prayer. She whipped around, eyes raking over the blurred woods, but they failed her. A jolt of light flared as flames erupted, and the familiar sounds of struggle clashed in the distance.

“Help!” the raw, savage sound ripped from her throat. “Someone help!”

She did not wait. Sprinting down the lane, she found solid steps in the dark along the cobblestone. But the path ended, and her foot met a rut in the dark. She launched forward, skidding along the rough path. Hissing in pain, she cradled her bruised arm against her body, but only for a moment. Desperation fueling her, she pushed off the ground and continued her mad, blind dash towards the flames in the dark.

How many times did she trip or stumble? She did not know. _Damn these eyes_ , she cursed. If she could see, if she hadn’t been so clumsy…

Cassandra and Cullen were the first to overtake her. Cassandra did not stop to ask questions. She raced ahead into the dark with nothing but her sword and her indomitable courage.

Cullen paused to check on her. “Are you hurt?”

She nodded despite the pain. “My brother!”

Without hesitation, he dashed towards them, the edges of his sword the only bit of light she caught in the fuzzy dark.

 _Damn it!_ She cursed again, trying to stand on her sprain. Each time she pressed weight onto it, a sharp pain bit into her bones. She closed her eyes, tried to focus on healing the injury, but her thoughts were too scattered, her focus unusually flustered, and her mana reserves were low from straining to see.

“Are you alright?” A voice questioned softly. Before she could reply, a cooling blue magic surrounded her ankle. She could almost feel the tendons knitting themselves back to the bone, the bruises disappearing.

She stood, nodding. “I am now.”

Solas nodded and offered her staff. Thank the Maker he had such foresight. With that mysterious, regal poise, he straightened, stretching out his arm. “Take my hand.”

She accepted, and a shock went straight from his touch to her dulled mind, jolting her awake. His penetrating eyes never left hers as he drew her towards him. One hand slipped around her, sliding along the small of her back until her found the curve of her waist like the position of a dance.

His steely orbs still locked onto hers, he whispered, “Left foot first.” A rush of magic surged towards them as the Fade yawned before the pair. His body against hers, his hand around her waist to guide her, she intuitively felt his leading. At his unspoken signal, she stepped with him in perfect sync. The magic swirled around with as much splendor and beauty as the feathered dancers on the floor. The shuffle of spirits whispered gossamer words, and the sparks of magic flickered and darted around them. In her next breath, it was all gone, replaced with the sounds of chaos and the scent of smoke.

Cullen, Cassandra, and Rupert were bravely defending the overturned carriage from an onslaught of Red Templars, their hulking forms unusually fast. What gave them such unnatural speed? When a sudden surge of mana roiled from her right, she got her answer: Mages.

The warriors were slowly being hedged in. They needed help controlling the field, and Lissa knew exactly what her first move would be: make them afraid.

Before she raised her staff for an attack, the familiar tingle of a barrier enveloped her as Solas wrapped her in a protective spell. Lightning cracked from her staff, jolting out with blinding heat as it scorched her opponents, the energies zapping from one to the other with bone shattering electricity. The mindless brutes hesitated now, giving her comrades the needed edge. Solas focused on slowing their advance by freezing them to the ground. Cassandra spared no advantage, hacking up under the left arm, though the collarbone, and across the neck of one frozen opponent.

As they fought, the two mages from themselves back to back, spinning and circling in an unusual, familiar dance. He stepped, and so did she. She twirled her staff high and he dipped low. Their mana rebounded off each other, snapping back and cleansing the energies to create more effective spells. Each cast was layered over the other, and the whisper of spirits was akin to music.

One by one, their enemies fell. Her heart was still slamming into her chest when the questions started.

“What … what were those … those things?!” Rupert demanded, horror and disgust twisting his blood-splattered face.

“Red Templars, agents of Corypheus,” Cassandra spat.

Rupert shook his head in confusion. “What are they doing _here?_ ”

“No doubt they were here for you,” Cullen insisted, sheathing his sword. Lissa heaved a heavy sigh, holstering her staff along her back.

“Is everyone alright?”

Rupert, his sword, already abandoned, was cradling a bruised but alive Serene. Despite the dark tears spoiling her makeup, she would live.

“Perhaps you should question the servants,” Solas offered, clutching his staff like a walking stick as he so often did.

Cassandra nodded, eager to accept the role. “I will. If there is cause to be found, I _will_ find it.”

Lissa turned to her Commander. “Solas and I will tend to the injured. Have our soldiers scout the perimeter. I want to know that a not a single enemy remains on Trevelyan land.”

He nodded gravely. “By your word, Inquisitor.” With a heavy stride, he raced back to the estate. She turned her attention to her brother and his wife while Solas took to putting out the fires. She knelt beside them, eyes raking over their forms in search of injuries. Rupert had his fair share, but they were readily ignored as he nursed his new bride’s bruises and scrapes.

“I can help … if you like.”

Serene shot her a vicious look. “Haven’t you done enough already? Those … those _theengs_ wouldn’t be here if not for _you!_ ”

“That is probably true, but that’s no reason for you to play the martyr. I can heal you.”

Serene groused, but otherwise made no objections. Rupert mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ as she directed her mana to aiding Serene’s healing.

“The coachmen are dead,” Solas reported as he bent to watch her methods. Slowly, the woman’s bruises faded and her scratches healed neatly shut.

“Well done,” her tutor responded, placing an approving hand on her shoulder. “You are improving.” She simply blushed and nodded slowly. “I’ll leave you to your brother. They may need my assistance at the estate.”

“I’ll meet you shortly. _Ma serannas, hah’ren_.”

“ _Ara melava son’ganem, da’len_.*”

Her blush deepened with the intimacy of his response. He had been a good teacher, and did not miss out on explaining the differences between formal and informal phrases, or ones used between only close friends, family, or – she swallowed at the thought – _lovers_.

A few of the Inquisitions soldiers arrived to escort the injured back. “Go head, Serene.” Rupert pecked a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll join in a moment.”

Lissa waved off the troops, content to enjoy a moment of privacy with her brother, even if it was tending to his grievous wounds. She began to unbutton his shirt, urging him not to move more than needed. The sour tang of blood assaulted her nostrils, and she bared her teeth at the sight.

Rupert spied her curiously. “He’s not your servant, is he?”

Eyes wide, she scrambled for a recovery. “Solas? What makes you say that?” Her fingers made quick work over the wound, washing away the blood and grime with frosty water.

“I’m not a student of languages, but – ow!” he scowled as found another deep gash surrounded by mottled bruises of varying colors. “But one _usually_ doesn’t learn Elvish for a _servant_.”

She chuckled nervously. “Don’t tell mother, but … he’s actually a close friend.” Her voice softened unintentionally.

“Oh? Is that what you called him?” he asked smugly. “That whole discussion sounded a lot _friendlier_ than that. Ow!” he exclaimed as she became intentionally rough with him.

“He is my _tutor_. He teaches me about magic not taught in the Circles, magic that is little understood elsewhere, much like my mark. Breathe in.”

He did as ordered, and she ushered aggressive magic to knit together the deep wounds across his chest. Her work finished, she looked up to find a worried look poring over her. “What’s wrong?”

He hesitated, his eyes darting as he searched for the words. He button his bloodstained shirt and carefully shrugged on his jerkin, all in silence, as his mind worked for the words.

“Are you safe?”

“What?”

“With him. The Apostate. Are you _safe?_ ”

She had to consider the question, which unnerved her. Was she safe with Solas? It was not a question she had ever considered before. She trusted him, yes. But it was true that now and again she got a strange feeling from him. There were time his eyes were sharp as daggers, his smile threatening, and his posture menacing. Sometimes she felt like _prey_ before him. Was she safe? No, there was no safety when faced with something as powerful as her feelings. She risked a crushing blow each time she dared to be closer to him.

“None of us are safe anywhere, Rupert,” her quiet answer came, her tone wistful. “Even without Corypheus. That’s what I learned from the Tower, and I’ve seen its truth playout in countless lives across Thedas. What semblance of safety we have is an illusion. We must enjoy it while we can.”

 

*   *   *

 

The wedding and the ambush were long behind her, but her brother’s words continually played through her mind.

_Are you safe? With him? Are you **safe**?_

She mouth the words to herself again as she took stock of herself in the mirror. Her hair was tied back neatly, and the rich, militaristic uniform hugged her form strictly. She slid her palms over the nubby fabric, enjoying how the rich navy contrasted with her brilliant red locks. But this look was far from a fashion statement; it was a display of power. A reminder of who she was: the Inquisitor. And today, she also the Judge.

 

With deep breath, she pushed into the main hall and crossed the threshold, stepped up the platform, and planted herself in the throne. The hall was eerily quiet, having been emptied of all political guests and refugees. Now Inquisition soldiers lined the halls and guarded her on either side. No matter how many times she had to do this, it still twisted her gut. She had been thinking over her decision for days, and now, no matter she said, there was no turning back. She slid her hands down the solid arms of the throne, braced herself, and nodded the command.

“Bring forth the prisoners!” Josephine bellowed.

Seven servants apprehended at the wedding were brought forth. They shuffled without hurry, chains linking their wrists and ankles clinking loudly.

“Each prisoner is charged with conspiring with Corypheus’ forces, resulting in an attack on your family’s estate, three dead, several more wounded, considerable damages, _and_ an attempt on your life, no less.”

Lissa leaned forward, lowering her gaze at them. “These are heavy charges. What defense do the accused have to offer?”

A few silent stares each with their own mix of emotion met her eyes, but most hung their heads.

She growled. “You raise no defense for yourselves? Is that to be taken as admission? That you knew you were working with Corypheus against my life?”

One dared spit a Dalish curse. “ _Fen’harel ver na, shemlem_.”

“Stop!” she commanded with every ounce of authority she could muster. “You _will_ speak common in my presence, or I will have your tongue.”

Josephine’s eyes bulged, but she made no comment.

Another servant took a step forward. “W-what he was, ‘we just wanted to purchase our freedom.’ When the Mages approached us, they offered us plenty of gold, enough for our families.”

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “And you did not consider the consequences? You did not imagine a life lived in chains, rotting in a dungeon for your crimes? Did you not consider what it would mean to threaten the existence of the entire Inquisition?”

He cowered, taking a step backward. Truthfully, it wrenched her heart. But she had a plan.

“Fine. If you freedom was worth so much, what would you have done with it, once you had it?”

They shared looks with each other, but remained dumb.

“So you’re telling me that your desire for freedom was so great it made you lose all forethought, all logic, and risk everything, the well-being of your families? Your very lives? Because that is what you risked, and that is what I am here to judge. What I say today will impact all of it. Remember that.”

 

She took a deep breath. “You can do nothing to earn back the lives of those that died. Not even your deaths would be sufficient payment. For your sentence,” she paused, waiting until each pair of eyes met hers, “you will be bond-servants of the Inquisition until you pay for the damages caused on your accounts. After your debt has been paid, you are free to return to the employers you betrayed and seek their judgement. Or … you can work for the Inquisition as free men.” Whispered gasps broke out the prisoners, some looking back at her with confusion. “But be forewarned: another deal like that will not be met with mercy.”

Josephine managed to string a sentence together, despite the shock on her face.

“The Inquisitor … has spoken.”

Soldiers moved to unlock the bonds and as the Elves rubbed their raw wrists, she addressed them in their tongue.

“ _Ar mala lasan na revas_.* Give what you have been given.”

She held back a smile in shock as they realized her understanding. She would have to thank Solas for that later.

Once the former prisoners had left, escorted to work by a handful of soldiers, Lissa bounded up the stairs to her room. Her chest was light, her mind clear. She had done the right thing, she was sure of it. After changing into more comfortable attire, she grabbed an armful of literature, skipped down the stairs, and made a beeline for Solas’ study.

“Inquisitor,” he greeted coolly as soon as entered the rotunda. “I wondered if I might speak with you.”

It was odd that he should ask. She had come here to talk to him. It was time for their lesson. Unless, of course, he wanted to discuss something outside of their studies. Her smile faded as concern overtook her. She set aside the book and spared a moment to measure him. He paced the length of the room, his hands clasped at the small of his back, except to brush his temple in deep thought now and again. His brows were strict and taut. Something had upset him.

“Of course,” she offered gently, careful to give him space. “What is it?”

There was no lead up, no careful questioning. He went straight to the point. “I would know the reasoning behind your judgement.”

His tone struck her like a blow. His directness was unusual, formal. Somehow, her decision had bothered him deeply.

“I’m of course willing to share, but it is too late for counsel. The decision has been made.”

He shook his head as if scattered thoughts would fall into place. “Yes, but … why? I must know.”

“Their crime was a small one, in the end. I didn’t find that any punishment would actually solve the solution. They will pay for their mistake, and move on. Why?”

The answer did not satisfy him, apparently. One hand pressed into his brow, the other rested on his waist. “They tried to have you killed.”

She raised up a hand. “Technically, had they wanted me to dead, all they had to do was poison my food. They weren’t murderers, Solas. They were … scared. If I had been given a similar option in the Circle, I can’t say I would not have tried. _All_ I wanted was to have a _choice_. They made a bad a choice, but they tried for their freedom. I can’t fault them for wanting more out of life.”

He bent over his desk, staring blankly at the open pages before him. “I … thank you. I appreciate you taking the time to explain.” He rose, and again the impersonal, formal Solas greeted her. “If it is alright, Inquisitor, I should like to delay our lesson this evening.”

“Solas, are you alright?”

“I have some searching to do in the Fade before our next lesson. That is all.”

It didn’t much feel like that was all. His demeanor pained her, her chest burning painfully. He was bothered, by her, but he would not discuss it with her, his _da’len_. The pain threatened to steal her breath, and again the words resurfaced.

_Are you safe?_

She turned towards the door, but paused to offer one last thought. “As you say, _hah’ren_. But if you’d like—“ she turned to face him, but he was already gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, STAHP LISSA. DON'T LOOK AT THE CULLEN. 
> 
> P.S. One, two chapters maybe until smut? No promises.
> 
> Translations (as always) by FenxShiral
> 
> *Ara melava son’ganem.   
> “My time is well-spent.” Similar to ma melava halani, is archaic and intimate. Rarely spoken to those who are not close friends, family, or lovers.
> 
> Ar mala lasan na revas.* I have made you free.


	29. Closer

Several weeks and many lessons had passed. Lissa was surprised but relieved her teacher had not brought up the topic of the former prisoners. By now, they had worked off most of their debts, earning a honest day’s wages from the Inquisition. Thankfully, Solas’ distant demeanor had not resurfaced. He remained her kind, wise _hah’ren_. He had even introduced her to some of his friends in the Fade, a gesture she knew was a rarity. It made her feel special. Wisdom and Patience had some of the most interesting stories and ideas, and Courage was simply inspiring. Curiosity and her got a long quite well, and Solas never tired of their questioning.

When she wandered the Fade on her own, she sought out these spirits and talked with them when she could find them. When she did, they could chat away the entire night. It always left her with so many questions and discussions for her next lesson.

Though, in truth, ‘lesson’ had become a term of habit. Their meeting had become less structured as of late, though she found she learned just as much. Their conversations were so easy and engaging. She never suffered for lack of interest, even when they found themselves simply reading silently in each other’s company. And he never complained nor made an effort to bring their meetings back to their structured schedule.

Lissa quietly turned the page, the rustle of paper and the shuffle of raven’s wings above the only noise to break the calm. Solas sat comfortably in his chair, reclined back comfortably as he studied the book before him. She grinned. These moments were among some of her favorites. It was hard not steal away a selfish thought, imagining the two of them enjoying a life together much like this. The fire would crackle and pop in the hearth, the sweet wood burning and scenting the air with pine. Warmth would rush over the hearth while the blustery night would howl at the door, and the two of them would be quietly tucked away, a blanket of skins draped over them as they contented themselves with seeking and sharing knowledge, maybe stealing a kiss or two.

“Something caught your attention, _da’len?_ ”

“Aha!” she chuckled raggedly in embarrassment. “No, ah, I simply got carried away daydreaming it seems.”  
  
He hummed. “Then I envy you. Reviewing an interesting dream from last night?”

Oh, Maker. If he only knew. “Well, actually I did have a rather interesting evening. I found Patience, and we had the nicest chat.”

“Oh?” He leaned back into the wide chair, setting his book aside to give her his full attention.

“It said the oddest thing, though.” She paused to take a sip from her mug of steaming tea. “It said I was unusually young for one of your friends.” If there were something odd in that statement, he made no indication.

He grinned. “And why is that unusual?”   
  
So he was not denying that she was unusually young? _Or that I am one of his friends_. “Well, it did give me pause. I realized I have no idea how old you are.”

He crossed one leg, resting his ankle on the opposite knee. His long fingers came to a point beneath his dimpled chin, and he grinned smugly. “Is that so unusual? Do you know the ages of your other companions?”

“No, it’s not that unusual. But it does become somewhat interesting when a spirit makes a point of mentioning it.”

He titled his head. “My friends are spirits that have wandered the Fade for thousands of years. Of course you would be the youngest of my friends.”

Her heart fluttered within her chest. He called her ‘friend.’

“I see. That does make sense.” She went back to reading, and he did as well, but the thought still gave her pause. “How old are you, though?”

He did not look up from his book, but his lips pulled in a crooked grin. “Older than you are.”

Her eyes narrowed on him and she scowled playfully. “Exactly how much older?”

“That depends on how old you are.”

She crossed her arms. “And here I thought you knew everything about me.”

His brows lifted and his lips tugged sideways in a crooked grin. “I find age is far less relevant than one’s spirit in relationships.”

“You’re very good at avoiding questions, you know.”

“Not good enough if you can tell,” he chuckled.

She never did get his age.

 

 

Several nights later, as was her habit, she searched for Wisdom to ask it a question regarding a particularly perplexing piece of history. Lissa searched and searched in all the places Solas had showed her. But Wisdom was nowhere to be found. After she woke and dressed, she padded eagerly across the main hall to the rotunda for their morning discussion. She had so wanted to tell him about the funny spirit she had met when she could not find Wisdom. As she slipped inside, she paused with a start, finding him brooding over a cup of tea.

She sniffed the air, catching the bitter scent of the leaves. “Black tea?” She neared the desk, eyes trailing over him with concern. “Something must be bothering you.”

He shook his head in disgust, swallowing the liquid with a grimace. “I needed to shake the dreams from my mind. I may also need a favor.”

 

She half sat on the edge of the table, cocking one hip on the corner. “Of course, Solas. You need only ask.”

“One of my friends has been captured by Mages, forced into slavery. I heard the cry for help as I slept.” He pushed away from the table and stalked around the room. His eyes were a storm hemmed in by deeply furrowed brows.

“I’m so sorry to hear that. Which friend is it?”

“The spirit of Wisdom. It was summoned against its will, and it wants my help.”

“Summoned?” Lissa shook her head. That would explain why she could not find it the night before, but it did not make any sense. She scratched at her elbow absently. “Why would they have to summon it?”

“It knows a great deal of lore and history, but why they would summon it, I cannot guess. Perhaps they wish to torture it for information it does not wish to share.”

She gasped. “Do you really think they would do such a thing?”

His gaze suddenly darkened sending a shiver racing down her spine. “I do not doubt the depraved possibilities.”

A knot formed in her throat, and she forced it down with a swallow. She took a breath, closing her eyes a moment to concentrate on his energies. She could feel the tight reign he had on his mana, the unshakable control, the stable focus. But around the edges, the energies lost their cohesiveness, fraying into scattered bits. It was a tiny shift, unnoticeable to most. He was troubled deeply. He paced the entire rotunda only moving his hands to gesture wildly for emphasis. She had not seen him this worked up _ever_.

“Poor Wisdom is too gentle for that. We must help it immediately. If you handle gathering the resources, I’ll work on getting the Advisors on board. War councils are always … lengthy. Can you give me two hours?”

He blinked, pausing just long enough to be noticeable. “I – yes, of course. I’ll begin right away.” His tone brightened immediately. She hopped from the desk, making her way to the door.

“Lissa,” he called out after her. She turned, and his brows were raised and the sharp edges of his eyes had smoothed. The genuine sincerity of his gratitude reflected in an impassioned tone that crawled over his skin. “Thank you.”

 

 

 “All of this for a spirit?” Cullen asked, shaking his head. He was obviously unsettled by the idea of pouring out resources and troops in a trip to the Exalted Plains on behalf of a construct of the Fade at best, at worst, a demon.

Lissa crossed her arms. “I would do no less for Cole were he in trouble. And besides, I’ve spoken to Wisdom several times myself. I know for a fact it isn’t a demon.”

Though Josephine’s practiced expression betrayed no insecurity, Lissa could tell by how she shifted her weight between her feet that she too was unsure of the plan. “It is rather … unusual.”

Lissa chortled. “And what exactly about any of this is usual?” She held up her hand. “You may forget that this mark isn’t normal because of familiarity. Solas is familiar with spirits as if they were people like you and me. I’ve met them!” She insisted, flattening her palms on the war table. She lowered her eyes to meet Cullen’s, imploring and challenging. “If you cannot see it as a person, at least recognize it as an asset. I’ve spoken to Wisdom. It knows things otherwise lost from our knowledge. It is an incredible resource the Inquisition cannot afford to lose.”

Leliana tilted her head as she considered it, touching a slender finger to her chin. “If this spirit knows as much as you claim, it would be wise to make certain it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

Cullen sighed, shaking his head and scratching the back of his neck. “Alright. If you believe in this cause, I will support you.” It was obvious the idea of spirits and the Fade unsettled him, but that he was willing to support her despite his uncertainty made her smile in gratitude.

“Thank you.”

“If it would be permissible, there are a few humanitarian opportunities on the way. It could make the trip more productive,” Josephine suggested.

“That seems more than reasonable.”

“Very well then,” Cullen finalized, setting a piece on the map in the Exalted Plains. “I’ll get the men ready to make way. Let us see if we can help this spirit.”

 

 

 

As soon as her business at the war table concluded, she sought out Solas, skirting through the people loitering in the main hall and nodding to their greetings.

“Herald.”

“Inquisitor.”

She gave each a courteous but curt nod, determined to weave through without being stalled. As she slipped into the rotunda, she found him quietly waiting at his desk. His faraway look may have been misread as aloofness, or even wistfulness by the average passerby. But not by Lissa. She could sense his calm veneer cracking at the corners of his stormy, and felt the tension tugging at the creases of his mouth. The mental battle was plain to her. She stepped in slowly, wary of disturbing the roiling sea of thoughts that surged behind his fixated stare. Her gut twisted to see him so worried.

His hands cradled his chin as his eyes shot an icy stare at the fresco beyond him. He was seated in a way that meant to portray calm. But it was too forced, too staged. His breathing was measured in mechanically equal intervals, his eyes were cold and hard as glass. His satchel was already leaning against his shin. A man of few possessions, it never took him long to be ready, but to be sitting here meant he must have finished the tasks she assigned him. _Maker, he must have rushed_. The man would spiral into darker thoughts if he brooded here any longer with nothing to occupy his hands or mind. Even with her poor vision, Lissa could see right through him.

“Solas …” she queried gently, begrudging the creak of the hinges as she slipped in. She crept softly towards the table. “I’ve cleared everything from the schedule. We’ll be moving out as soon as we’re ready.”

A shortened sigh flared his nostrils. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

“I still have to pack, and I’ll need to check on the mounts as well.”

“I spoke with Master Dennet. They should be ready.”

She swallowed. He _had_ been productive. “I see. Thank you for being efficient,” she tried to hide the disappointment in her tone. She had hoped to give him another task to distract him. Her hesitation nearly betrayed her. He lifted a sharp, tired gaze to her with a question raising his brows.

“Was there anything else, Inquisitor?”

“Well, perhaps you would be willing to help me pack, then?” It was a stupid suggestion, she knew, but it was the only thing she could manage with so little forethought. She held back a sigh. If their roles were reversed, no doubt he would have come up with something clever on the spot. She really did not need the help packing, but _he_ did. He grinned.

“Inquisitor, I doubt you need my assistance. I appreciate what you attempt to do, but I am fine.” Pushing away from the table, he slipped his hands behind his back and straightened as if to prove he would not break.

She shrugged. “Very well. If I show up to the Exalted Plains in two different blends of plaidweave, I’ll just have to explain how my friend and tutor let the blind woman pick out her own clothes.” She crossed her arms, shooting him a playfully aggravated look. “And it would be your fault I look so terrible.”

He chuckled from his nose in a near snort. Her chest fluttered, and she struggled to reign in the stupid grin trying to take over her face. She treasured that wonderful sound. He shook his head as if to clear away the last bits of laughter. His eyes met hers, lighter than before, but also piercing. He rebutted softly, “I very much doubt you would look terrible in anything.”

Her thoughts stalled. Did that mean he thought she looked _good_ in anything? Did he actually pay attention to how she looked? She repressed a self-conscious check to sweep the stray curls from her face. Her throat worked a sudden lump, her plan to distract him suddenly derailed. She grinned crookedly despite her struggle.

“Very well then,” he said with a soft tile of his head. “How can I help? Besides ensuring that no plaidweave is permitted in your wardrobe?”

It was her turn to chuckle. “Hmm, and here I thought you said I’d look good in anything.”

His eyes narrowed with subtlety, and his lips thinned in a sly grin. And just as they parted to say something, her heart racing with anticipation, a smooth voice carried down from above to interrupt them.

“Or nothing at all, I’d wager,” Dorian flirted. She looked up, squinting to find him leaning artfully against the railing, book in one hand and wine glass in the other. “Oh! Pardon me,” he locked onto Solas with a meaningful glance. “Did I say it first?”

Dorian’s flirting was nothing new, but injecting it into her conversations with Solas _was_. Her eyes widened suddenly before she shot him a sharp glare. The threat was considerably less intimidating for her glowing blush.

He paid no heed to her warning. His lips curved in a crooked grin, his mustache quirked to the side. “Oh, come now. All’s fair in love and war. And since we’re so obviously _not_ in _love_ …” he drew out the words intentionally, dragging his eyes across the two of them. Her stomach bubbled, and she willed her gaze forward. “…I’ll have to use war as an excuse. And we are at _war_ , aren’t we?” His eyes went back to Solas. “Oh, come now, Solas. Your face might stick that way. Ah! Actually, that explain a lot.” He adopted a pitiful expression, earning a gruff grunt of irritation from her tutor.

A firm hand suddenly gripped her arm just above the elbow. “Come, _da’len_. We should finish your packing.”

As she was nearly dragged out of the rotunda, she managed a parting glance over her shoulder. Dorian lifted his book, nodded smuggle, and mouthed ‘you’re welcome. _’ What nerve!_ She most definitely should not have smiled and mouthed a reply of ‘thank you.’ But she did.

 

*   *   *

 

Solas had not the patience to waste on a self-important Tevinter, not when Wisdom needed his help. _Least of all when he insists on … on that_. His teeth gritted at the thought. He did not need help diverting his thoughts in such an inappropriate manner. And for what? A simple diversion to distract him from the gnawing worry over Wisdom? It would be foolish to expect that he would find comfort with his arms wrapped around her soft form, his lips fighting against hers for dominance. It did not help that he already knew the scars her body wore, and that his eyes had already laid hold of her abundant, _human_ curves. He remembered too well when his mind was quiet how his hands lathed the wet cloth over her body, washing away the dirt and blood. It was just after Haven. She was a curiosity, but nothing more. She was not yet his _da’len_. But what did that title even mean anymore?

A loud slam jolted him from his thoughts. “Sorry,” she sheepishly replied, a pretty blush darkening her cheeks. “This trunk is just so heavy.” As Lissa rummaged through her wardrobe, he scanned her ever expanding pile of tomes. Between his worry over Wisdom, and the accompanying foolish thoughts for escape, he needed to be put to work.

“Which books did you want to bring, _da’len_?” The word was too familiar, too precious, on his lips. It lacked the clinical coldness of a mere title. When had that changed?

She paused from rolling a jerkin into a tight, neat wad. “Oh, um …” she considered the pile with a hum, squinting her eyes until small wrinkles creased at the corners. “I’ve been reading _Fade and Spirits Mysterious_ for one. I could do with some catching up.”   
  
“Again?” he chuckled, reaching for the book and cradling it under his arm.

“Well, I’ve been taking notes and interjecting my own thoughts as I go.” As she stuffed another article into the pack, she threw her eyes towards another pile. “Don’t forget the journals.”

He sifted through the books, thumbing through the pages with a rustle. _There is so much here_ , he marveled. Each word was scribed with care. He could just envision her soft form hunched over the desk to press her eyes to the page to record her thoughts. He stole a glance back at her, and she straightened, pressing her hands into her lower back as was her growing habit. _No doubt from her studies_. He angled his back to her and paused, taking in a few of the scrawled lines.

 

_Why are these the commonly accepted ideas? Why must these unfair assessments be the defining work on spirits and Mages? And what of the enslaved in Tevinter? Narrow statements like these remind me that these people need a voice. I only hope that with my influence, I can spread a little kindness and lot of knowledge and reveal the truth._

His chest twisted. “Which of these did you want, _da’len_?”

“There is a pair I’m currently using. One is wrapped in boiled leather, the other is secured with buckles. They’re both half empty.”

His gaze traveled over each book, searching until he found a pair that matched her description. He flipped through the pages and grinned at the amount of writing she had done. To think that here, between these pages, were her inner most thoughts. Her thinking had already intrigued him. To have it laid out plainly was mouthwatering, too tempting to ignore. He quietly flipped through the pages, eyes scanning over the exposed thoughts before his eyes snagged on familiar words. _What … what is this?_ The majority of the journal was composed of his stories, his accounts of the Fade. Each question she had asked about where he had been was meticulously recorded, notes jotted to the side and even poorly scrawled maps and notes about what wards to set. The names of spirits, the local spiders’ favorite food, everything. He knew she had been diligent about studying their shared craft, and she had always devoured his lessons on Ancient Elvhen. But he had never considered, never imagined that she could care so much about the things that interested _him_.

His thoughts buzzed, drowning out the ability to speak. He silently brought over the requested books and added them to the satchel. A worry kneaded his brow. Would she shrink from his plan? Would she think it heinous to restore the world to its former state? The dimple between his furrowed brows deepened. _Would she think differently of me?_

“Lissa,” he started softly, hand still wrapped over the binding over her journal. “Why are you so willing to help? To assist? What makes this a worthy venture of the Inquisition?”

She turned from her work, carefully sinking against the edge of the bed. Her eyes held his, intent but soft with kindness. “You’re my friend, Solas. And Wisdom is, too. If any one of my friends were in danger, I’d do the same. So would the rest, I’m sure of it.” A kindly smile warmed her honeyed eyes, and her freckled cheeks bunched up in soft mounds beneath her lower lashes. “Because it is a spirit makes no difference to me. Besides,” she chuckled, a melody that dared the loneliest part of his soul of his to hoping, “aren’t _you_ the one who believes in ‘the right of all free-willed peopled to exist?’” The delicate flicker in her eyes and the crooked smile tugging on her petal pink lips betrayed her innocent sincerity. She believed it, too.

The spark of her, her brilliant spirit, swept across the dark, lonely corners of his being. It was a drink of fresh of air to be near her, to be witness to her very _soul_. She was here, so very _real_. He wanted to clutch to her, to convince himself that she truly _was_. He could see himself grabbing her wrist, pulling her close against him until the softness of her form molded against him. He would hold her, grasp her, and drink in the faint scent of roses, cinnamon, and sweat from off her freckled skin. And when their souls could not be closer, blocked by their bodily cages, he would seek her out in deep, desperate kisses, his hands bound by her hair, their hands clawing away at the clothes that –

“Solas?”

His hand gripped the book until his nails bit the leather binding. His fingers were locked with tension, and the peaks of his knuckles were white as snow. With a ragged sigh, he released his grip, slipping the book into satchel.

“Yes, I do. I am. I’m … thank you, Inquisitor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a shortish chapter, but I decided to split it up so that you could read this bit now while I work out the details of the rest. ^_^ Don't forget: you can follow me on tumblr, too! AsTheDayDiesfanfic.tumblr.com It's a fanfic/Solas trash blog. ALL ABOARD!


	30. All New, Faded for Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: This entire chapter is going to have quite a bit added to it! I was struck with inspiration and now have a lot of things I cannot pass up. :) I hope you won't mind if I make it longer. ^_^
> 
> UPDATE 11/02/2015: Chapter has been updated! Please enjoy it in its entirety :)

She smelt the carnage before she saw it. Sickly sweet and slightly tangy, soured with the stench of death. The putrid smell of rotted flesh had not spread yet. _Too soon_ , she noted with a grimace as she neared the closest body.

“We are near where I sensed my friend.”

“These were mages.” She knelt to examine the corpse, throwing the crook of her elbow over her nose. “Sword wounds. Bandits, maybe?” She coughed, fighting back the bile burning her throat as she swatted away buzzing flies.

“There’s more here,” Blackwall added. “They weren’t mages.”

“So, we have our bandits. But mages couldn’t have done this …” she wondered aloud, eyes scanning the strange slashes across their torn bodies.

“You are correct. The bodies are burned, and these claw marks …” Solas’ eyes flared with a revelation. “No, no. No, no, _no!_ ”

Lissa placed a hand on his forearm. “Solas? What is it?”

He pulled away, continuing down the dirt path with a severe glower puckering his face. Nearly jogging, she worked to keep up with him, his pace determined and fueled by a searing, focused anger.

Ahead, just beyond a pile of smooth boulders, was a large demon, its grotesque, hulking form tethered by a binding ritual. “ _Who would summon a demon?_ ” Solas gasped, eyes widening in horror.

“My friend!” He paused, turning in circles as the storm in his eyes reflected that of his mind. He yelled out in frustration.

“Oh no.” Lissa looked over the demon with pity. “They corrupted Wisdom …”

“Yes,” Solas growled, his teeth gritted.

“They must have summoned it to do something against its nature. To be so opposed…” She shook her head. “What did they make it do?”

Solas’ gaze shifted, spearing a deadly glance at an approaching Mage. “Let us ask them.”

The man sighed in relief. “A Mage! You’re not with the bandits? Do you have any lyrium potions? Most of us are exhausted.” He shrugged in a tired sigh. “We’ve been fighting that demon…”

A wave of anger surged from the Elf. Cole stepped back warily.

“You _summoned_ that demon! Except it was a spirit of wisdom at the time,” he spat. His fingers clenched and twitched, and Lissa felt a spell building in his fingertips.

He ignored her. “You made it kill! You twisted it against its purpose!”

“I – I…” the man stammered, unprepared for so vicious and accurate an accusation. “I understand how it might be confusing to someone who has not studied demons, but if you’ll just help us, we can-“

“We are not here to help _you_.” He turned towards her, as if seeking confirmation. Despite the scowl and the rough, raw tone of his voice, she saw the question linger in his grey eyes.

_Are you the one to help me?_

The plea struck her heart. But what could she do in this moment? She had no idea how to help spirits, or if it were possible. But what she did know was the ignorance of the man before her. Lissa turned to the mage, crossing her arms over her chest. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with. I advise you to keep your misinformed opinions to yourself.”

He did not listen. “I was one of the foremost Mages in Kirkwall Circle-“

Magic sizzled in the air, tingling the skin across her arms. Even Blackwall looked shocked. Solas turned a feral snarl on the man.

“Shut. Up.” His words, normally so lyrical and carefully chosen stumbled out, halting and uneven. His normally smooth voice was rough with emotions, and her skin prickled at his rage. “You – summoned it … to protect you from the bandits.”

“I-“ sensing his defeat, he conceded. “Yes.”

“You bound it to obedience, then commanded it to kill. _That_ is when it turned!” Solas turned from the Mage in disgust, eyes settling on her with desperation. “The summoning circle. We break it, we break the binding. No orders to kill, no conflict with its nature, no demon.”

“No!” the man begged. “If you do, you’ll set it loose.”

“Inquisitor, _please!_ ”

“It will kill us all,” the man pleaded again, earning a scoffing sound from Blackwall.

“You have no idea who you’re dealing, son,” he grumbled, shaking his bearded head.

Lissa tensed her jaw, settling a disapproving scowl on the man. “You have already proven your ineptitude. You and the other Mages will go a safe distance away while I disrupt the binding.”

“Thank you,” Solas sighed in relief.

With shaking steps, the Mage turned, his steps quickening with as the distance between them grew. Lissa turned, a dark gaze settling on the demon just beyond. She sighed.

“Blackwall, Cole, if you two can try to distract the demon without killing it, Solas and I will break the ritual. I know I am asking you a lot …”

The burly man nodded. “We’ve been through worse. It can’t be that bad.”

“I am glad to help,” Cole agreed.

She turned to Solas, and he answered with a grim nod.

The growl of the demon rumbled through the air, reverberating the dark sound between her ribcage. Its heavy fist slammed into the ground, showering her in rubble. She deftly averted sinking into the cracks beneath her feet. Her chest twisted. If it was this painful for her, what was it to her _hah’ren_? She had not time to check on him. The last spire was cracking, nearly destroyed.

She took a deep breath, drawing in the dirt-riddled air and exhaling as she dipped her staff towards the spike. A jolt of lightning shot out, and the spire exploded in a shower of rocky shards. She huffed, catching her breath before whirring on her heel to find –

She gasped.

Solas knelt before Wisdom. The energy that surrounded the spirit was fragile, flaking. It was dying.

“ _Lethallin, ir’abelas_.”

Lissa’s throat clutched closed as the brittle sound to his voice, the way Wisdom sounded so thin. Their words were few, and Lissa’s stupid, _stupid_ voice was too choked. Before she could utter anything, her friend was whisked away like simple dust. She had failed.

“I … it …” Her chest rose and fell, her breaths short and shallow.

“Wisdom was happy, in the end. My friends are here, and I am as I meant to be. I am me.”

Solas finally rose, a dark cloud shadowing his aura. “All that remains now is _them_.” His eyes were dark and sharp. A blackness full of old, deep hurts now bubbled to the surface. The air around him became hot, crackling with unbridled energy. Raw slips of magic were drawn to him, gathering like debris around a whirlpool. It was terrifying and beautiful. But mostly terrifying.

“Thank you. We would not have risked a summoning, but the roads are too dangerous to travel unprotected.”

Stupid man.

He snapped. “You … tortured and killed my friend.” He stepped forward, pressing into them with the gait of a hunter.

“We – we didn’t know it was just a spirit! The book said it could help us!”

The magic surrounding him began to take shape, and she could feel the spell becoming a reality. _No_. She could not let him do this to himself! But he was too far away. How would she stop him? Her throat suddenly worked as a desperate warning was ripped from her throat.

“Solas, stop!”

He looked at her with confused outrage. Her marked hand clutched his wrist, the mark sputtering virulent green sparks. Her nails dug into the cloth around his wrist, and the air tingled with the last remnants of magic.

She had split the Fade and stepped through seamlessly.

The Mages gawked at her in horror, as if she was a demon herself. Solas yanked away his hand indignantly and turned his back towards her.

“I need some time alone.”

“Solas …”

He walked his bare feet marching a solemn, steady beat away from her. Her voice wavered a plea.

“ _Hah’ren, sathan garas …*_ ”

He paused at that, turning his head over his shoulder. “I will meet you back at Skyhold.”

Lissa bit back her trembling lips and rounded on the Mages. The way they stepped back must have meant the fire she felt in her chest must have been burning in her eyes. She growled.

“You have some explaining to do.”

 

 

*    *    *

 

 

He needed to be far, far away.

 _Curse this damn world_. It was their ignorance, their petulant self-serving pride that destroyed everything worth protecting. Even as he cursed them, a flicker of _her_ danced in his mind, throwing back his accusations in his face. _No, not everyone_ , a part of him conceded. But it did not entirely sooth the burning hole in his chest. He fell to his knees, and clawed his fingers in the dirt. It was not supposed to be like this! His jaw clenched as he considered Wisdom, and the aching loss of everything it stood for. Wisdom had been his friend and council for thousands of years. And it had been snuffed out in a single act of stupidity. _How bitterly ironic this world could be_. He chuckled darkly.

Night had fallen. He pulled his hands from the cold earth with a sigh. With the butt of his staff, he carved out intricate runes in the earth, muttering the spells in Ancient Elvhen that would give them life. He spread out his bedroll and laid down, briefly noting the stars overhead before he closed his eyes.

He searched the Fade. He revisited familiar spots where Wisdom once lingered. Now they were empty. But there were stirrings. Formless energy mingling together. It was not the same, but it gave him hope. That they even moved meant there was still genuine wisdom alive in the world. And perhaps if it was strong enough, it would take form. He sighed.

The Fade swirled past him, the colors bleeding into withering edges. The distorted energies slowly began to take shape, massing into a familiar place. A mirage of spells twinkled overhead, inlayed into a sparkling granite cave. The fresco still looked out over the refuge with a watchful gaze, a warning and welcome depending on who entered. It was his refuge, his haven. But something wasn’t right. The clean, earthy scent was warmed with a fragrant spice and the delicate perfume of roses.

 _Lissa_.

How had she made it here on her own? The human mage continued to make him marvel. That she should have found her way here, without him, was supposed to be impossible. Why had she come here?  The Lady Trevelyan walked around the edge of the wide cave, dragging her fingers along the rough walls. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her lashes were spiked with tears. Trails of dried tears stuck to her freckled cheeks, and the sleeves of her sheer nightdress were soaked. She stopped, resting her forehead against the wall of the fresco. Her shoulders jostled up and down as she quietly cried, muttering unintelligible words between her sobs. How selfish he had been. He had left to console himself of Wisdom’s death, but he had not considered that his _dal’en_ , too had been its friend. And who at Skyhold would share her remorse? Who would sympathize for her loss? She was alone, and it was his doing.

He could have stepped from his hiding place, revealed himself to her. He could have consoled her, let her cry into his shoulder until her tears dried up. He would have stroked her hair until morning, burying his face in the scent of her. Their solace would have been sweet, and here – oh, _here_ , in the Fade – it was a hundred, no – a _thousand_ times harder to restrain himself.

 _No_. He recoiled at the thought, disturbed at the clarity these visions had developed, how _tangible_ they could be. He forced down a swallow.

With a pained gaze, he watched as shuffled to the bed he had once offered her and slipped herself under the heavy furs. She nestled into the pillow, and sobbed.

He did not realize he stepped forward until she sat up with a start.

“Solas?” Her voice was timid but dared to be hopeful, staring right through him.

But she could not see him. He would not allow it. With a ragged sigh, she pulled the furs to her neck. No, _no_. He needed to be far, far away. But was his distance protecting himself or her? How was he supposed to help the People like this? There were no curses heavy enough to relieve the conflict in his soul. He needed to think, to burn out the dregs of thought in his mind until there was nothing but bright, burning clarity. He needed to know. Despite the tearing in his chest, he slipped from the sanctuary, and continued his search.

 

*    *     *

 

“Inquisitor?”

The voice sounded distant, drowned. Her thoughts were heavy, matching the pressure in her chest. But it seemed familiar, and her mind was almost tempted to listen. It repeated, more forceful. The sound pushed through the current of her thoughts, finally breaking through to her consciousness. She lifted her head.

Cullen’s brow was furrowed deeply, but his gaze was soft. “Is there … anything I can do to help?”

In a stupor, she looked down at the pile of papers beneath her. What were these? Oh, yes. She was supposed to be giving feedback on the upcoming revelry. Something about that dragon they had been forced to cut down. Too early for such a creature. She sighed.

She looked up at him with a wry smile. “I’m supposed to be giving my input regarding the dragon slaying ceremony.” Her chest felt heavy despite the empty spot in her chest. “Only, gathering my thoughts feels like I’m trying to catch mist in a basket …” She did not say it was because she missed _him_ that her thoughts had become so scattered. Oh, if her _hah’ren_ could see her now. What “indomitable focus?” A prickle burned in her chest, and she tried to force away the memory of that particular conversation, tried to stanch the feelings. But instead they seemed to worm their way deeper, strumming against her core. It was a hollow desire. Her thoughts were thin and dry, and it was not _right_. She was still the Inquisitor, and she had a job to do. It was not fair to mope. Self-pity was an indulgence unfit for the savior of the world.

She straightened, calling on her trained decorum. “I apologize, Commander. I will deliver my report within the hour.”

His shoulders drooped and a clipped sigh slipped through his nose. He pulled out the chair across from her and lowered into it. “I did not mean the report, Lissa.” His voice was kinder than it should have been, much more than she deserved. 

She sighed, not realizing how tight her breath had become. It was odd, sitting here at his desk. In the empty rotunda. It had always been a place of quiet. That had not changed. It was still quiet, and yet in profound ways, it was too different to be enjoyed. The searching shuffles of the curious and learned still bustled about in the library above, the ruffle of feathers and occasional squawk punctuated the silence now and then. But it was not the same. Even the fresco seemed lifeless without his presence.

Cullen swallowed, his throat bobbing as he worked up the nerve to speak. “I would help. If you would allow me …”

Help. What help could he give? And more curiously, what was he offering? She decided to play up her ignorance to buy her time for a decent response.

She chuckled. “Well, I admit, having never killed a dragon before, I am rather at a loss at how to inspire others.”

He lowered his gaze at her and leaned in. His hand outstretched across the table, wavering near hers, and then dropped against the table. “The dragon slaying might impress strangers. But here, at Skyhold … you need only be yourself. _You_ are the Inquisitor. _You_ are what Corypheus seeks to destroy. You are where you are because … because of who you are. If you wish to inspire the troops, you need only be yourself.”

His words were kind, but instead of lifting a burden as they should have, the weight of them pressed down on her. She needed only to be herself? Was who she was such a simple thing? She did not much feel like herself lately. It was frustrating. When had Solas become so ingrained into her being? When had she allowed him such power over her identity?

Despite herself, she admitted quietly, “I haven’t felt much like myself lately …”

His eyes moved away from hers in silent acknowledgement. Slowly, he drew his gaze back to hers and grinned lopsidedly. “Well, I did have something I thought might help.” He slipped his hand inside his cloak and withdrew a folded parchment, closed with a familiar red seal. “Your brother sends his regards.”

“Rupert?” she asked brightly, and for a moment, her worries seemed further away. She snatched the paper, tearing at the envelope with eager fingers. She was so absorbed in hearing from Rupert that she missed the tender gaze of her Commander’s eyes resting on her as she read.

The words were a salve, each one chipping away at the hardness in her chest. Finally at the end of the missive, she sighed with a soft smile. “It’s good to hear from him.”

Cullen grinned. “I thought it might help. Which would be why I’ve invited him to attend the dragon slaying celebration.”

She sat up with a start, leaning over the table. “What?”

His kind exterior began stammering with awkwardness. “I – I just remembered that you seemed to enjoy yourself at the wedding, and I thought …”

“You …” she breathed, resting her head against the back of her chair. “He’s … you’ve really invited him?” Her brother. He was coming. Here, to Skyhold. It was too much, and she felt like bursting into tiny bits. “I – _thank you_.”

Cullen’s eyes widened, his face red. “I – it’s my pleasure, Lissa.” He stood, his face having cooled a bit, and grinned. “If you need further help with the celebration, I’d be happy to help.”

 

 

 

Another week gone. Nearly a month has passed, and despite the questioning glances she shot at Leliana during their briefings, nothing about the Elvhen Apostate had come up.

“As to the matter of the delegation,” Josephine began, shooting a brief glance towards her, “our guests should start arriving tomorrow for the festivities. I’ve already planned out guests’ quarters arrangements. But if you should like something different for your brother …” Oh, Josephine. How gracious to give her the option of making changes at this point. She swallowed. She must really look like she’s about to come undone if Josephine is willing to make concessions this late in her plans. She grinned.

“Everything you’ve planned is perfect as usual, Ambassador. I’m certain my brother and his wife will be most comfortable in the quarters you’ve chosen.”

The Antivan beamed. “Perfect! Then you should know some details about the evening. First, a speech will be given depicting the glories of your famed battle with the beast.”

Lissa did not hold back a groan, earning a crooked grin from Leliana. Cullen crossed his arms. “As unappealing as it may be, the tale, embellishments included, are expected at these fetes.” He grinned crookedly, the light glinting off his warm eyes. “As a young Templar, the telling of such tales inspired me to work hard and hope that I might have such an opportunity for victory. It will be good for the men to see high spirits again.”

Of course, he probably meant it would be good for the men to see _her_ in high spirits, but celebrating the loss of a beautiful creature did not seem like a proper theme for a party. Still, it had not been easy. And there was a great deal of teamwork necessary to bring it down.

“So I shall deliver speeches to seal my place as a champion in another arena?” she shook her head and chuckled tiredly.

“No, actually,” Josephine added. “Dorian volunteered.”

Her brows rose at that. Dorian had been one part of the team responsible for their survival against the dragon. His input would be no surprise. But that Josephine would consent to let him address an entire delegation of guests? That was surprising. “You’re actually allowing him to regale our guests? Voluntarily?” she laughed.

Josephine’s gaze became quite serious. “He’s told me the tale several times. I’ve heard many riveting tales in the Court, but he has quite the way with words. Our guests will be eating out of his palms.”

No doubt.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t decline any offers.”

Cullen choked.

“Yes, well … I’m certain our guests will enjoy themselves at least half of much as he will.” Josephine inclined her head, sharing a gaze with the other Advisors. “I do believe that includes our agenda. Though, Inquisitor, I would like to discuss a few personal matters with you, if you have time.”  
   
She cursed. Her plans of drowning out the lingering doubts of her mind with several books would have to wait. “Of course, Josephine.” She forced a smile.

The others filed out, but she did not miss how Cullen’s eyes lingered on her before he managed to drag them away to exit. She swallowed. But now she was alone with Josephine.

“What is it, Josephine?”

“I thought perhaps, if isn’t inconvenient, we might go someplace more comfortable. I could bring some pastries, like before.”

Ah. She wanted to have that sort of discussion. Her stomach fluttered, nerves quaking within her bones. She felt fail, fragile. She was hardly holding herself together. A few well-worded questions might send it all tumbling forth and she might not be able to stop it. But to refuse would injure her friend, she knew. Josephine always had quite the tight schedule. That she would put aside time to talk to her meant it was important. So she nodded.

“Alright. I’ll have tea ready, then.”

Josephine smiled. “Fantastic! I’ll be right up with the scones and maybe I’ll snag some of the Orlesian delicacies.” The Antivan flitted out of the war room towards the kitchens.

Well, if anything went terribly wrong she could always drown her feelings in enough icing and frilly cakes.

 _No_. She cursed again, trying to force away the sudden twinge. Perhaps not the frilly cakes, then. With a sigh, she resigned herself to the impending force of nature that was to be Josephine, armed with cakes and hundreds of probing questions.

She was going to need a lot of tea.

 

*   *   *

 

The Dreaming was different without Wisdom. For thousands of years, he had consulted Wisdom on even the smallest of things. Wisdom had been the last person to know him, _truly_ know him. Wisdom had known him since he was a young Elfling, young and cocky and so …

 _Prideful_.

A dark chuckle bubbled from his lips. And here was now, several thousand years older. But was he any wiser? He often wondered. He was caught in the same cycle he had been then. Fixing his mistakes. And now Wisdom was gone.

He sat down on a rock, letting the warmth of the sun bare down on his back, warming him through his robes. He would often dream here as a young Elf, seeking the advice of spirits, eager to hear their tales. Wisdom was ever patient, listening to his unceasing questions. How eager he had been to have wisdom for himself someday, instead of having to consult a spirit with every turn. But every time he thought he caught it, he ended up with another problem, and back to Wisdom he would run.

He grinned. Wisdom had been a good friend. He pressed his eyes shut, reaching out into the air around him. The Fade responded, coming alive for his senses. Yes, he could feel it, stirrings of energy where Wisdom had frequented. _Perhaps, someday_ …

“You are pained?” a lowly voice questioned.

Solas opened his eyes, meeting the questioning face of the formless spirit before him. He was bound to get attention sooner or later. He had not the energy to force it away. He sighed. “Yes, Sorrow. I am … _pained_.”

Sorrow drifted around him, curling around his shoulders like a cold, wet blanket. It was heavy and damp and drew from his pain. It moaned, and heaved a heavy sigh. “You should tell me about your sorrow.”

He grinned crookedly. “Why? You can sense it clearly enough.”

It swayed, coiling against his form. “But it is all shapes and shadows. I want to _know_. If you could just let me have a look inside …”

“No.” He said it more sternly than he intended.

Sorrow pooled at his feet in despair. “Your sorrow is confused and disjointed, unfocused, unhelpful. It bleeds into everything, clouding and staining.” It moaned again. “You would do well to let it takes its own path before it runs into everything else.”

Solas sighed. He knew that too well. He had experienced enough sorrow for a thousand lifetimes. It even polluted his joy. Yes, he knew that too well.

He raised a brow. “I cannot stay for as long as it would take bleed out my sorrows. What would you have me do?”

The spirit bubbled and swirled upwards, coiling around his shoulders again. It was clammy and weighty, a fitting sensation, he thought. “If you simply think on your current sorrows, I can sense them if they are strong enough. I can guide them to the end, like they want.”

Solas sighed. He would not give it everything, but thinking on a single point of sorrow would not be so revealing. He leaned forward, pressing his chin against the back on his hands. “Very well.”

He focused on Wisdom, on the empty feeling bound up within him. The sensation of loss and of misdirection. The conversations he would miss, the knowledge lost. The security of being known for who he was, what he had done … now he was truly alone.

“Ohhhh,” it whimpered, drooping over his shoulders. “This is a very thick sorrow.”

His voice barely managed. “Yes.”

It sighed. “You miss her.”

“Very much.”

“This is bleeding into everything. It leaks and touches and changes. The marks of this sorrow are scarred into every corner of you.”

Solas worked his jaw. He did not appreciate so keen an observation of his emotional state, but he supposed it was true. It felt like parts of him were all shook up and mixed together. It was not fitting for one with the responsibility he had. His duty required much cleaner incisions.

“You should tell her.”

He sat up, opening his eyes. Sorrow's second mistake was not to be allowed. He quickly corrected it. “ _It_ is not here. As we have already determined, Wisdom is dead.”

The spirit uncoiled, drifting in front of him. The damp chill remained. “Not Wisdom. Its touch is remembered with sadness and joy. But you should tell _her_ before it is too late.”

Her? He scowled. Who else could it –

“Yes,” it said simply. “That one. You have such sorrow over that one. You should tell her.”

Solas stood. “That is all I have time for today, Sorrow.” With a wave of his hand, the Dreaming shifted, and he was far, far away from that spirit.

He wandered. The Fade slipped past him in watery shadows, soft-edged blurs that drifted by as he rummaged through his thoughts. Surely it was the sorrow he felt over Wisdom’s death that had been bleeding into how he felt about his _da’len_ , not the other way around. Why would he have to sorrow over Lissa? She was still here.

Or rather, _there_ , he corrected himself, wistfully imagining Skyhold. Envisioning Lissa poring over old tomes, her eyes eager and bright, her questions pungent and provoking.

To whom would she ask her questions now?

He sighed, trying not to revisit the sight of her in his sanctuary, eyes swollen and pink with hot tears. His chest gripped, and he felt it keenly.

It was only natural to feel pained when a friend was pained as well. Had he not hurt when Wisdom was captured? Had it not set fire to his bones when it was turned to a demon? His feelings for Lissa were strong, but they were friends. It was not unusual.

The blurring slowed. Stopped. His feet met familiar stone, his thoughts having pulled him there.

He felt his chest lighten a bit. If he was going to end up here, he might as well check on his _da’len_.

It was never hard to find her. Pulled by a thought, the stone and trappings zipped past him until he peered through the watery edges of reality. The vision stopped, Lissa sitting before him. She was in her room, the many candles encircled her like an ancient ritual, setting the copper tones of her hair ablaze. She sat in a wide-backed chair, facing another soul. Ah, the Antivan woman. What political misfortune brought on this meeting? Beyond the swirling window, he watched.

“I’m fine, Josephine, really,” she insisted. Had something happened to bring that into question? He furrowed his brows. Lissa reached out for a delicate porcelain cup and brought it to her lips. “But I appreciate your concern.”

The other woman sighed. “Really, Lissa. It is quite obvious. You’ve not been yourself lately.”

Curious. He peered closer, the vision shifting to accommodate his interest.

Lissa set down the cup with a clink. “Oh? Is reading ancient manuscripts so odd a hobby of mine?” she chuckled, but it lacked the musical lilt. It was too forced, too memorized, and did not suit her pretty lips. He stared at their Advisor, urging her to draw out the issue. Please, continue. What you sense is not wrong. His heart pounded in his chest, pulse throbbed in his ears. Something was wrong, can you not see? _Please_ , search it out.

Josephine reached out, placing a hand over hers. “It was not your fault.”

He felt it then, the frantic jolt of prey having been found. Lissa’s eyes flared briefly, barely noticeable to any but him. But it was there.

Her words were cool, flat, far too even. “If there was nothing to keep him here, he had every right to leave.”

His chest compressed, his shoulders heavy. She had been upset about _him_?

“I always knew he would leave sometime, Josephine. I just thought …” Lissa sighed, her eyes shone with a watery glaze. “Well, he always was a lone a wolf.”

His throat lurched with bitter bile at the title, at the hurt he had caused to so many in this guise. Oh, but _her_ …

“ _Yes, her_ ,” Sorrow’s voice repeated in his head. He pushed its voice from his mind. No, it was not like that. It _could not_ be like that.

“He may yet return. He came to help. Perhaps if he feels there is reason to continue helping …”

Lissa bore her gaze into the tea cup, and he wondered at what visions her mind was seeing. If he was, if he could ask her … “It is what it is, Josephine.” She took a deep breath, straightening herself, falsely resolute. “I did what I could. If that was not enough …”

His gut wrenched at the obvious subtext coloring her words,

 _If I was not enough_ …

“Everyone must make their choice, Lissa. I’m just sorry he left.”

Lissa grinned sadly. “Me too. I hope that he’s happy, wherever he is.”

Josephine chuckled. “He never seemed the _happy_ type. What was it you called him? ‘Grim and fatalistic?’”

Lissa stirred the tea in her cup, clinking the spoon against the porcelain. Her soft lips tugged to the side in a wry grin. “Yes. That is why I worry for him.”

He pushed away from the scene, afraid his chest would cave in if he watched to it much longer. The vision blurred, washed away in a watery ripples until the formless Fade awaited his direction.

But he did not know what he wanted. He had searched for clarity, and he was left with nothing but more confusion. Questions. Burning in his chest that would consume him. He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, seeking out the formless, painless refuge of the Dreaming.

“How unusual. He does not know what he wants.”

The air felt suddenly dry and hard with a sharp edge that heightened his senses. The voice was velvety and alluring, drawing out the words like a knife from a wound.

The spirit bobbed before him, taunting him, daring him to catch it with a thought. Another spirit drawn to him? He must be a storm cloud of emotions. But then, is that not how he felt? His mind was a whir, his thoughts caught in a cyclone. It was to be expected the Fade would reflect his nebulous feelings, sending them out into the Dreaming like smoke signals for wandering spirits.

“But you want it terribly. It gnaws and tears. I can hear the want shrieking inside you. Do you not know?”

Solas scoffed. “If I did, you would not have been drawn to me.”

The smoky figure grinned. “That is true. Tell me then, if you do not know what you want, what you wish _not_ to happen?”

Would he have to sit here and be plucked at like a ball of string by a hoard of hungry spirits until he was unraveled?

“There are a great many things I wish to avoid. And so many of them I am powerless to stop.”

The spirit slipped nearer. His chest felt like a hot poker had stuck him, probing him. As Desire slid pulled away, the heat disappeared. The void let in a rush of empty cold, and he found himself yearning for the stab of heat.

Its energy shifted, coiling around itself in a slither. “How amusing. You want _not_ to want. I am afraid I cannot help you with that.” Desire had the nerve to chuckle at him.

“Do you find my contradictions too much for your understanding?” He sneered. He had little patience for cocky, coy spirits with juvenile games. Wisdom would never have been so condescending to him.

It laughed. “Of course not. If there is one thing I know, it is want.” Its voice purred, and it slithered around his chest, encircling him in a tight embrace. “And you are simply brimming with it. The yearning need, threatening to break you. How silly you should try and keep it locked up. It is such a bright want. I would very much like to see it…” It formed its body into a probing hand, reaching for his chest.

He reacted with instinct. The spirit flew back, as if it had touched a charged rune.

“Oh, now that is very naughty,” it spat. A grin curled into its ghostly face. “You really ought to loosen up. It is hard to enjoy such delicious desire when you’re so grim and fatalistic.”

He felt struck with the words. “What did you say?”

The spirit simply giggled darkly, coiling around his shoulders again. The sensation of it was unmistakable. It was as if warm, soft arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind, a curtain silken hair caressed his scalp, and the air filled with the familiar scent of cinnamon and roses. Lissa. The hot poker returned, more painful this time, but also strangely more pleasing. The vision strengthened, and a pair of petal-soft lips pressed a chaste kiss to the top of his head. He shuddered. A ribbon of red hair curled along the side of his face, tickling his right ear. His eyes fluttered, his shoulders relaxed. Despite himself, his eyes drifted closed, and he allowed the feeling to comfort him. He had just settled into the pleasure, a sigh building in his chest, and it was gone, sucked away with a chill rush of emptiness.

No. No. _No_. Don’t leave. I want –

Desire chuckled, slipping away into the Fade, satiated with his need.

 

*   *   *

 

The library was quiet, and only a few torches save from the one she brought illuminated the space. Stark moonlight filtered in stretched patterns through the paneled windows. It was very later. Or very early, she supposed. It was hard to tell. She could not sleep, and she could not bear to search the Fade anymore. The disappointment would crush her, she knew. She crept towards a chair in the corner and curled into it. She pulled out the nearest book, flipped it open, and attempted to read.

Maker, she must have read the same sentence twenty times. She allowed her blurred eyes to peer out into the night. A full moon. The spirits must be restless.

Her mind flashed with a memory. Her balcony, just the two of them. Cool blue light and sharp, chill air and the sense of his mana filling the space between them. Her chest collapsed. Tears stung her eyes.

No. She had come here to _avoid_ that.

She forced herself to see the words on the page, tried to reign her thoughts onto each one. But her Maker-damned eyes could barely make out the letters! _Plip. Plap_. Tears smacked the page and she snapped the book shut, flinging it from her lap. She coiled into a ball, pulling her knees to her breasts, trying (fruitlessly) to crush the feelings from her chest. She cried.

Something gripped her shoulder. She gasped.

“There, there,” a voice cooed. “Just tell me how the tome offended you, and I shall burn it in the most deplorable way possible.”

“Dorian,” she whimpered, a pathetic sound she despised.

He only grinned kindly, his mustache going lopsided.

Before she knew it, she had clutched his robes and buried her face against his arm, sobbing recklessly. It was selfish. It was foolish. Vain. Pitiful.

But he did not push her away. Instead, he slipped one arm around her and gave her shoulders a squeeze. And for a brief moment, it was all right. It was alright to _not_ be alright. For the first time in a long while, she felt grounded. Self-preservation began to build, and she suddenly realized her fault. She pulled back, face hot with tears and flush. “I – I’m so sorry, Dorian.”

He patted her head. “Well, I assume it was a terrible book. You do have good taste in literature.”

She snuffled, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She still felt heavy, but it was not an aimless surge of feelings that threatened to swallow her. For a brief moment, the cork had been pulled, letting the feelings bleed out until she could breathe again.

“I couldn’t even read it …” she admitted in a mew.

He chuckled. “An even greater offense! I don’t know how it got off so easily. Shall I fetch the warden? I’ll have to fashion an unusual set of cuffs, but I don’t doubt my ingenuity.”

She chuckled, and it bubbled up from someplace deep, someplace real. She let out a ragged sigh and smiled. Too many people excused his humor as juvenile attempts to avoid reality. But she knew Dorian. He, too, had known deep pain. It was because he was well-acquainted with reality that he battled it with a humorous wit, lightening loads where he could. It was a gift, and she was thankful.

“No need to go through so much effort,” she waved. “I’ll grant it mercy this time.”

“Ah! If only my robes had met such a kind fate.”

She blushed. “Oh – I apologize. I can fix that…” She reached out, about to call on her mana, but he clicked his tongue.

He scowled. “If you wish to insult the innate, well-bred talents I’ve cultivated over the years, you needn’t be so plain. Subtle insults will do.” With a wave, the robes were dry, the dark spot of her tears gone. “There. Good as new. Well, not entirely. I think I shall have to have my manservant sew me some new ones. I should wake him.”

“But I thought our stores of Tevinter-bred long-haired rams were empty. Whatever shall you do?”

“Harumph. I shall just have to use some ill-bred, Ferelden strands. Perhaps if I have him split each hair, it will be fine enough for my particular tastes. No need to chafe this perfect complexion.”

She chuckled again, the last dregs of dark feelings shaking loose from her chest. She took a deep breath, let the cool air fill each nook and cranny of her lungs, and let it out all at once. She looked out the window. Each individual star was swallowed by the blur of black, her eyes unable to pick out the details. But still the brilliant orb of the moon would not be missed.

“It’s the third one …”

Dorian laid a hand on her shoulder again and offered her a gentle grin. “Perhaps you’d care for me to read it? Since we’re giving it a second chance at life and all.”

She tore her eyes away from the moon and looked at him a grin. “I’d like that.”

 

*   *   *

 

Solas blinked his eyes, adjusting to the light of day for the first time in days. Ninety-two days. Time was such a funny thing. He could have spent much longer in the Fade, remembering his friend and sorting out the cobwebs of his mind. Ninety-two days was barely the space of thought, and yet here, the passing of time was hard to ignore. As he sat up, dry, dead leaves rustled as they fell off him. He brushed off his tunic, scattering the layer of dust and dirt that he had collected. The air was fresh and warm, and the sky was clear. It would be at least a three week journey to make it to Skyhold. _I best get started_. He rose, clutched his staff, and began his trek.

 

*   *   *

 

As soon as she got word from Leliana, she darted out of her quarters and burst into the main hall. Her heart urged her forward, each pump seeming to say, _he’s here, he’s here. Ba-dump. He’s here_. Her feet made a hasty rhythm down the main steps. She floated over them. Easy work. Harder to slow down. She made it just in time to see a familiar form emerge from the main gate. The light wrapped around his frame, shoulders tapering to a trim waist, narrowing to shapely thighs that marched a slow, unhurried pace. Her breath caught in her throat, and she forced her feet to remain planted. Solas met her, and nodded with a soft smile. The lines around his eyes seemed to have deepened, but it was her _hah’ren_.

Her heart pounded.

He’s here. He’s here.

“Inquisitor.” His voice soft, almost uncomfortable. He was bracing for her reaction.

Stupid fool. If had not a measure of self-control, she would have clutched him there, buried her face in chest just to assure that it was really him. Her eyes locked onto his, searching out each individual flecks of light that bounced off the stormy grey orbs. She wanted to be mad at him, but she was too elated that he was here.

He shifted his weight uncomfortably between his bare feet. She was never so happy to see his toes standing before her. She looked up, following the line of his body back up to his face. His eyes avoided hers, his brow cinched in concern or pain.

“Are you alright, Solas?”

His eyes flared briefly, taken aback by her words. Apparently it had not been what he was expecting. He lowered his gaze and sighed. “It hurts. It always does. But I will survive.”

She swallowed, licking her dry lips. “I – I’m glad you’ve come back.”

He shook his head, a weary smile tugging on his lips. “You are a true friend. You did everything you could to help. I could not abandon you now.”

Ba-dump.

He’s here.

“…But you almost did.”

He furrowed his brows. “Excuse me?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and spread her stance to steady herself. He had no idea what he meant to her, had no idea how she had worried. “You were gone for four _months_ , Solas. Not a word! That behavior is unbecoming to a member of the Inquisition.” She felt her knees buckling, much like her resolve. It was true he was not a sworn member of the Inquisition like many of the others. He had an unusual relationship with their organization. But what else could she blame? She could not come out and shout “I missed you.” So instead, she insisted her anger was a professional one. At the least, it would allow her some release.

His eyes measured her for a moment, his eyes briefly pained. He straightened. “I – you are right.” He bowed his head. “I should have informed you.”

She blinked. The sudden humility and instant agreement had not been what she expected. When her voice came, it was too frail, too sincere. “You _should_ have stayed with me.”

He looked up, his gaze sending a jolt down her spine. She forced herself not to look away. “It was selfish of me. I did not consider that Wisdom was your friend as well.”

She wanted to bark in sarcastic laughter, but thankfully she maintained a shred of self-control. “Wisdom was my friend, yes. And I crossed half of Thedas to help it. To think of it hurting …” she pressed her eyes shut, trying to force away the visions of the twisted demon. “But you and I – we’ve been friends for much longer. I had wanted—” She choked on her words and cursed her lack of resolve. “I wanted to _help_ you.”

His eyes settled on her, warm and gentle. He took a step near her, then two. He bent his head as if in prayer, and admitted softly, “You have helped me more than you know.” Her heart began an insistent beat in her ears.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

 _He’s here_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you should know y'all are the best. <3
> 
>  
> 
> Translations: *Solas, please, come to me.


	31. The Approach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PSA! If you did not read the last chapter after the update, go check it out! I doubled the chapter length with a lot of content you won't want to miss. <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lissa looked in the mirror and grimaced.

It was the most unflattering garment she had ever put on her body.

And it was not just an opinion of her “sheltered tastes” as Dorian liked to remind; Josephine let a grimace show in the mirror before she realized Lissa could see.

“This isn’t going to work.”

Josephine sighed, raking slender fingers through her hair until curls sprung out to the sides. “No, it will not.” Lissa noticed the way her temple pulse as she worked her jaw.

She grinned. “You know, perhaps this may be the unlearned thoughts of my inexperience, but if we must meet Orlais, if we must play their Game, should we not at least look like we’re trying?” She shrugged, and the stiff weave of the militaristic tunic bunched on her shoulders, shaking the tassels on the shoulders. “This looks terrible.”

“It … does not do you any favors.”

“You don’t have to be so political. It looks horrid on me.”

“Truly, it does,” she moaned. The poor woman looked like she was about to pull on her hair. Lissa realized her figure and coloring were not always easy to flatter, but she had hoped Josephine would have some quality material with which to work. She forced her eyes back to the mirror and curled her lip. She appraised herself harshly, her shoulders dropping. Well, it was not really her friend’s fault she looked so plain. If her hair had been more manageable, or perhaps if she had a more slender build, something in this cut would look suitable.

“Does this look good on anyone?” she asked innocently, turning to the side.

Josephine flopped in the winged chair. “Cullen looks dashing in it. The Court will want to eat him for dessert.”

Well, that was one opinion she supposed.

“Why is it I’m being forced to be wrapped in something so ill-fitting?” She left out how disappointed she was about not getting the dress like the one she asked for while in Orlais. She remembered seeing it, staring at it with mouth agape like a child. At least Josephine had appreciated her taste in puffed sleeves before Dorian and Vivienne coolly scolded her poor tastes. She could still picture it: sleeves as wide a punch bowl and a skirt the size of a dinner table. White silky fabric set off by edges of lace and gold, and jewels inlaid in the bodice. Her heart sank a bit.

“Because the other two cannot see reason.” Josephine utterly pouted. It would have been hilarious had she not been trapped in the stiff trappings of red and blue and gold.

She wriggled out of the garments, glad to be down to her small clothes. As she slipped back into her breeches, she wondered aloud, “What do you mean?”

“They are concerned for your safety. You cannot fight in such a dress if your life depended on it. Which, considering recent events, it is expected it will.”

“They don’t know that,” Lissa whimpered, sinking on the edge of her bed. “And besides, is it not just as deadly to walk in last years’ fashion, let alone …” She shivered.

“You do have a point there.”

“You know, the tailor had some fine ideas. This is a fantastic formal uniform, you know, if we were nothing but a military power.” Her voice lilted up and down in sing-song fashion. She was scheming, and she wanted Josephine on her side.

The Antivan’s eyes narrowed at her. “Yes, that’s true…”

“But the Inquisition is so much more than that. It is symbol of Andraste herself. It is one of the greatest political powers in Thedas. We have a spy network to rival most of the known world. Does this uniform say all of that?”

Josephine smiled crookedly. “No, it certainly does not.”

“Then it just won’t do for the Inquisition. At least, not _all_ of its members.” She bit her lip, feeling excitement bubble up within her. If Josephine was on her side, it would be easy work to get at least one of the other two to agree. And once Josephine latched onto an idea, poor Cullen would agree just to be rid of the bulldog.

Josephine’s eyes glittered. “What did you have in mind?”

 

*   *   * 

 

“The idea is absurd,” Cullen scoffed, crossing his arms. She tried not to deflate. “How would you defend from assassins bound in something such as … as this?” He thumped the sketch of the dress with the back of two fingers, a tell-tale throb bulging his temple.

“Well, you’ve not seen me in it, but I can assure you, it’s quite flexible. I could always take one for a spin with the training dummies. I’d be happy to show you—“

Cullen held up a hand, his face three shades too bright. “N-no, that wouldn’t be necessary. I’ll –“ he swallowed, “I’ll defer to your experience.”

“There are benefits to each, as well as cons.” Josephine laid out a list of each, meticulously detailed. She had taken this more seriously than she expected. “And based on what I have here, it would benefit the Inquisition to take this route.”

“Appearing well-bred is of importance to the Inquisition?” Cullen barked, firmly planting both hands on the war table as he gawked at the paper. “This is absurd. The Inquisitor’s safety is of utmost importance. I will not let that be compromised.”

“There is the point that not playing by their rules is more dangerous than any assassin we might face,” Leliana added, measuring each with a cool gaze. “This threat to the Queen may not appear, though it is to be expected. Whether you want to believe it or not, the Game is dangerous and only the best make it out alive. Throw the Inquisitor into it, and her safety is already compromised.” This unsettled Cullen very much. He went stiff, quiet. “Unless we fit her to play by the rules.”

“I can do it. I think it’s a good idea.”

Cullen sighed. “As it seems, as usual,” he growled, lifting his eyes to meet hers, “I am outnumbered. You women will be the death of me.”

Lissa giggled, and he turned away from her, turning back to fidget with the piece on the board.

He cleared his throat. “There is the matter of Venatori activity in the West. Our reports show them gathering in an old fort of some kind, but aside from their numbers, nothing else is known. We do know, however, that they are still there. It would be the opportune time to press an attack.”

“Perfect,” Josephine made a mark on her page. “While you go to the west, I’ll get your notes to the tailor. Just don’t lose any limbs while you’re away.”

Lissa chuckled at Cullen’s glare. “I will return, whole and ready for my fitting.” 

 

 *   *   *  

 

Lissa hesitated as she passed a demon mid-strike, about to connect a lethal blow with a Venatori sorcerer. It was odd, surreal. And were she not so acquainted with the Fade, she would have wondered if it were somehow a trick of it. Her nerves fired with caution, magic readying in her fingertips. “What happened here?” An uneasy roil churned in her gut. Across the expanse, frozen figures were carved out of time like statues, frozen by some sort of powerful magic. It made her lips tingle.

“There is strong magic at work here,” Solas commented on the obvious. The concern in his voice unnerved her. It took a great deal to unsettle him. “I have never seen anything like this.”

Not even in the Fade? In the whole of history he has so thoroughly studied, he has not seen anything close? A chill raced down her spine. That was not comforting.

Something about the figures enthralled her. Her eyes narrowed, her vision blurred around the edges until only they were in focus. Their voice faded away, swallowed up into a hallow warble. And another voice came through. Whispers. What did they say? They wanted to be heard. She leaned forward, hand outstretched without her consent. She was close, inches away from touching it.

“Lissa.”

She blinked. The urging voice drew her back, the present unfurling clearly around her. That was … odd. And not a little disconcerting. She shook her head, ridding it of whatever notion had come over her.

 “Then what are we dealing with?” she barely breathed, taking a cautionary step back from the statue.

Dorian groaned, his eyes suddenly glassy. “I – I may have any idea about what this is, actually.” He was soft, lost in memory. “It hadn’t crossed my mind until now…”

She frowned. “What are you talking about, Dorian? Have you seen magic like this before?”

He carefully stepped over an overturned pillar, skirting around the falling chunks that were suspended in midair. “Not exactly like this, no.” He shook his head. “But if they continued working on what I think they have, we may be witnessing time magic.”

“Time magic?” Cassandra barked, echoing her thoughts.

What an absurd notion. At least, it was until she saw this. These people did appear to have been caught in the action, frozen mysteriously. She found herself questioning the idea herself, weighing the possibilities with the evidence. Theory on it was scarce, and her knowledge of it sketchy. And what she did know was that the theories were half-baked, not at all respected. This view would stump even the most learned of her order. She turned to Solas, a question pursing her lips. “Is such a thing possible?” She had hoped for some brilliant answer, but he simply shook his head, peering at their surroundings with as much as she.

She turned towards the Tevinter, urgency sharpening her tone.“They who, Dorian?”

“It was something Alexius and I were working on before I left to warn you, a rather brave act on my part if you recall.” Normally she appreciated his bloated sense of humor, but right now, with the apoloclyptic scene before her, she rather preferred he get to the point. She crossed her arms. He cleared his throat. “Alexius had focused energy around a single amulet. It was all theories and brilliant discussions at the time. If he gave his research over to Corypheus … perhaps this has something to do with it?”

Time magic. She was boggled at the thought. The implications if someone mastered this power … she almost lost her footing. Her mind suddenly shot the present into focus. “We need to be careful. I don’t fancy the idea of someone manipulating our very time.”

“Yes,” Solas added. His eyes hardened into chips of ice. “They may be stopped now, but I’d hate to be caught off guard when they wake up.”

 

The group explored the area with added caution. Even Cassandra gave each stationary figure a wide berth, her sword and shield ever at the ready. As she wove through the crumbling space, she carefully sought out solid footing among the littered rubble. And as they progressed, the whispers increased. She ignored them, for now.

Among the scattered debris, Lissa found tattered journals and scraps of paper depicting the research exactly as Corypheus had said.

“So this is what it come to, Alexius?” Dorian growled, gripping one of the papers until it crumpled in his wide palm. “Debasing your brilliancy, selling out your family, Felix, to the service of some madman?”

She laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Dorian.”

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra barked from ahead, sending a shock to her heart. She clutched her chest, glad to know her heart remained behind her ribcage.

“What is it?”

“There is something here you should see. I do not like it.”

Three curious Mages traversed the space, up the stairs and through an arched doorway into a side room.

“Be careful,” Solas instantly warned, eyes leveling at the scene before them.

A demon and a sorcerer were twisted in battle, waging for control. Each one seemed to reach towards the middle of the room, where a swirl of magic moved. It was unnerving, the cloud of magic the only moving thing in the space. The whispers grew louder.

“There are runes here,” Solas remarked.

“It’s a staff…” she murmured, drawn to the center of the cloud.

“I would not. We do not know what it would do.”

“True. But we do know it was what they want. And whether now, or whenever they wake up, I don’t want them to have it.” She turned towards him and raised a brow. “Do you?”

He avoided the question. “You could be hurt.”

His concern was endearing, but the possibilities of leaving it here for them to pick up seemed much worse than anything that could happen to her. If these Venatori were here studying time magic, perhaps this was the key. Maybe … maybe this staff could undo it. Or ensure they stayed this was for an eternity.

She reached out and clutched her hands around the shaft.

A strange pulse throbbed in a sudden surge the moment her fingers made contact. Her mark suddenly flared, raging flashes of green sparking and sputtering. The room was swallowed by a sudden blur, the edges darkening and only the blinding green light from her staff remained. A searing pain tore through her arm, burning a path to her shoulder. She tried to let go, but her fingers would not listen.

In one nauseating boom, the initial pulse of power rushed back, pulling at her navel as if her dragging her entire self towards a single point. Her ears popped. Head lurched backward. Everything went black.

 

Wet. Soaking wet. Why am I wet? She stirred, blinking away the blur in her eyes. Each movement sloshed around in lukewarm water. It smelled of mold and urine. She forced down a retch. When at last her eyes decided to cooperate, she saw her mark, angry and flashing, spitting out sparks. She sat up. Her long braid now doubled in weight hung heavily between her shoulder blade.

“Where are we?”

“That, my dear, is a very good question,” a familiar voice asked. “A better one might be ' _when_ are we?’”

She stared him, and she felt the cold air hit her mouth. It must have fallen open. “’When?’ As in, you think we experienced time magic?”

Dorian dusted off his robes. It must have been a habit of his, because it did little good for the water staining his robes. “When you touched that staff, a tear began to open in the veil.”

Her eyes widened. That was bad. “I created a rift?”

He shrugged. “It could have been the intent of the staff. Or perhaps it was a reaction to your mark, there. Whatever happened, it brought us here. And here is very interesting. At least, what I’ve been able to gather while you were out.”

“Where are the others?” Where was Solas?

“Well, they aren’t in this cell it seems.”

Her eyes finally adjusted to the poor light. She was in a cell. A cell filled with broken boxes, sodden, moldy bags and …. Oh, Maker. This time the retching could not be helped. She found the nearest box, bent over, and was actually grateful when her stomach was empty. She wiped her mouth with the back her hand and slowly stood aright. Dorian wore the worst grimace, but mercifully said nothing.

Slumped behind him were the charred bodies of two odd looking warriors. Dorian smugly swung a ring of keys around one finger. “Shall we find the others?”

 

Her own breath was too loud as she padded down the halls, desperate not to make a sound. Each squelch of her wet boots made her cringe. Each shadow that passed set her heart to racing. Her fingers ached, gripping her staff far too tightly. She felt Dorian’s magic at the ready, tingling at the back of her neck. It was quick and sharp, darting in readying pulses. It was different from the even, constant flow that Solas seemed to possess. She missed that.

If she reached out, she could feel a strange, sickly pulse beating violently, madly. It was sharp. Sick. Hungry. Her mind reeled at the poison.

As they rounded the bend, the source of the nauseating magic was found: a pillar of red lyrium, painfully etched into the shape of a man. Or perhaps it swallowed one.

“Well, whenever we happen to be, they have red lyrium. Though I do not find it a comfort.”

A heavy, humid current passed through the hall, drawing her around a corner. A long row of dilapidated cells lined the hall. Spike of red lyrium stuck out, bending bars and swallowing others. Inside the blood red crystal hovered a pair of chains. The implications unnerved her.

“This … this is terrible. Who would do this?” A monster. A madman. Her hand quaked around her staff.

 

“Hey!”

“You there!”

Lissa whirled on her heel, turning to raise her staff just in time. The blinding flash of steel slid down the length of her staff, sheering off the skin of her knuckles. She nearly bit off the tip of her tongue in pain. Eyes closed, she drew on the magic, seeking out the Fade.

That’s odd. Where is it? As she searched, the pool of magic was missing. How does an entire Fade up and disappear?! Her hesitation almost cost her a kidney as her assailant pressed for another attack. She was forced to use her staff as a menial stick, blocking the strike. It nicked a small gouge in her thigh. She was pressed back, step, step, until she could feel the press of gritty rock beneath her back.

She sunk to the floor, avoiding the swing of his blade. It chinked off the block with a spark. She reached into her pouch, clutched a lyrium phial and smashed it against the floor at his feet. The liquid magic seared and burned, sending him into a brief panic. Just enough for her to gather her focus.

Where was the Fade?

When at last her mind found the magic, it drew from all around, slow like sludge and in a constant ebb. It was odd, but she would have to theorize on that later. The magic now gathered in her hands, she shot it forth, arcing a deadly bolt between her foe and Dorian’s.

The two brutes fell to the ground, sinking face first into the rubble.

Her chest slowed its heaving as her pulse calmed. She slaked a filmy sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and hissed. The salt stung her bloodied knuckles. She hissed through her teeth.

She wrestled with the mana as she healed herself. Dorian knelt near to lend her aid.

“The magic here…”

“Funny, isn’t it? Instead of being in a nice pile waiting for us to find it, it has to be gathered and bound.”

She nodded. It was disconcerting. What did that mean for the Fade? Did people still dream? Was it an effect of the abundance of red lyrium? Curious as it was, she really hoped she did not have time to find out.

As her wounds healed, she dared to reach out beyond herself, letting her mana search the surroundings in place of her dim vision.

At the edge of her senses, the barest touch of _something_ stopped her cold.

_What?_

She took off, darting down the hall.

“Where are you going?” he barked. She ignored him.

Faster, faster. She ignored the pain in her leg as the muscles worked against the unhealed tear. Her feet pit-patted down the steps, two a time, nearly tripping. She skidded around a corner. Burst through a doorway. Slid to a stop.

Her heart pounded a driving rhythm in her chest, her ears, and her wounds. She stared down the dark throat of a long hallway, splintered with spires of red lyrium. Steps slid to a halt behind her.

“Vishante kaffas! What did you –“ He gasped.

The familiar voice jolted her from her shock.

“For you will lead us through the dark, and we will not become shadow. You will give us strength to tear our enemies and we will not be torn.”

She joined the voice, finishing the recitation.

“Oh, Cassandra…”

The woman had thinned, her high cheekbones hollowed out from sallow skin. Her eyes flickered with red. Her muscles had lost her definition, the clothes (how dank and torn!) hung from her form. The Seeker, reduced to this? She fell to her knees and gripped the bars until her knuckles peaked with white.

“Cassandra, it’s me. It’s Lissa.” A slow tear rolled over her lashes and down her cheeks. “I’m here.”

“Lissa? No. You – you are dead.” The woman’s eyes flared briefly, and it was a comfort to see her exhibit some sort of emotion, something breaking through the dull, glassy stare. “I watched you die.”

“I didn’t die,” she insisted, more forcefully, pleading with her to have hope. Don’t give up, Cass. I’m really here. “We got sent through time, both me and Dorian.”

“You … you are alive. Then all this time…”

“I’m so sorry. I could have helped.”

“Yes, you could have. But you were not there. It was not your fault.” The deadened look returned, and with it the pain in her chest.

“What happened?”

“A rift opened and swallowed you up. We heard the screaming … and suddenly, you were gone.” Her voice was flat and dull, with none of the passion of the zealous Seeker she had come to admire. It wrenched her heart, splitting her chest with a burning pain. “When that happened, the Venatori overwhelmed us.” Cassandra’s eyes went dark, distant, her shoulders suddenly heavy. “They captured Solas and me. Killing us would have been a mercy, we soon realized. Without your mark to seal the Breach, it split open, spewing forth a constant army of demons. Corypheus conquered Orlais, defeating Empress Celene’s forces first. From there, the rest of the Thedas fell. He … he opened the rift. Now the Fade is everywhere.” 

The veil was gone? Then maybe that explained why the Fade felt like it had moved. It was no longer in a separate plane. It was … here.

She did not want to know the answer. Part of her already believed she did. But she asked anyway. “What about the others?”

“Cullen was killed when our troops were wiped out. I was told it was a quick death.” That did not comfort her. “Most everyone died when Skyhold was targeted. Leliana was captured as well, I think. Corypheus wanted special punishment for some of us.”

She swallowed, unable to get the knot in her throat to go down. Her eyes burned with tears, her face hot with rage. Sorrow and anger mingled together in a potent cocktail, surging through her veins like electricity. Where was the Corypheus of this time? She would find him, and she would kill him.

“Where is Corypheus now?”

“If he is not here, he will be shortly. Your arrival cannot be kept secret.”

“That is not good news,” Dorian stated. Obviously, although a part of her was screaming, daring him to approach her. She wanted to destroy him, make him suffer the way her friends had. “We have to get back to our time. Perhaps if we can get back to where we are supposed to be, we can prevent this from ever happening.”

Her heart jumped in her chest. That was an option? Of course! She was ignorant for not considering it in the first place. Provided they could find what brought them to the future to begin with, they might work on how to get it to bring them back.

“What year is it Cassandra?”

“Is it Dragon, nine forty-three.”

Forty-three? An entire year was just … missing. Yes, they simply had to get back to their time, get to where they belonged. She was starting to think the odd, unsettled feeling was less the change of magic and more to do with the fact that she did not belong.

Dorian made quick work of the lock, freezing it and heating it rapidly. Lissa raised her staff and butted it against the door until the metal shattered. The bars swung wide, squealing on neglected hinges.

“Come on, Cassandra. I’m getting you out of here. We’re going to try and make things right.”

Cassandra raised her eyes, the briefest flicker of life returning to them. “I do not know how you can undo this. But I will help you try.”

She reached out hand and hoisted the woman upright. So light. Was Corypheus trying to starve her to death?

They continued throughout the lower levels, sifting through the rubble and skeletons carefully. Who knew who might be waiting around the next corner? Their progress was slowed by Cassandra, but it was not a burden. At least, not for Lissa. The warrior’s growing frustration was becoming evident, but at least she was feeling _something_.

“Stop!”

“Intruders!”

Dorian pushed his lips out in a mock pout. “They just had to ruin our fun, didn’t they?”

She understood the magic now. She knew where it rested, waiting for it to be called. It was everywhere. And it would be their undoing.

Cassandra rushed in, suddenly full of vigor as if the cold steel gave her life. Lissa shrouded her in a thick barrier. She brought up her staff, jammed the butt of it into the ground. A circle rune zapped instantly to life, sparking and snapping in violent purple bolts. The two warriors backs arched painfully, limps convulsing in pain until they dropped their weapons. She felt her jaw clench. They would not touch her friend. Not while she was here.

Cassandra’s strength had not yet succumbed to Corypheus’ punishment. She raced forward, blade caugt in memorized forms. In one, two, three flashes of the blade, the first dropped to the ground, blood splashing with a sickening plop. The second’s scream was squelched with a sickening gurgle, an effective jab to the throat severing his head. The body thudded to the floor, and an eerie silence hung in their midst.

Cassandra turned, meeting Lissa’s eyes. She nodded.

Yes. They had to this. There could be no failure. Whatever world she had witnessed, it had to be prevented.

“Lissa…” Dorian breathed, his sharp whisper darting through the silence. His voice wavered slightly. His face was twisted with shock. “I think you should see this…”

She frowned. What could –

No. She knew that feeling. The sensation of it was burned into her mind. It wouldn’t let her sleep at night. It was a lighthouse when she wandered the Fade. She knew that mana.

_No_.

At his request, she neared the archway. Dread slowed her steps. She was not sure if she wanted to know the truth or pretend in ignorance. No, she could not pretend. The painful certainty was better than ignorant hope. And besides, her heart already knew what she would find.

Shaky steps led her forward. Her knees wobbled but her heart dared to hope. Her mana reached beyond herself, seeking confirmation. Her heart leapt in her throat. _Maker, please no_.

_"Hah'ren?"_ she squeaked in disbelief. She abandoned her staff and it bounced on the floor, crackling and fizzling at the impact. Without thinking, she was instantly at his side, having used the Fade to step next to him. That it was so easy, even without her staff, was lost as she cared only that he was here.Down the hall in the farthest cell, a familiar energy beckoned her, drawing her. It could be no other. Her heart knew. Down the rest of her hall, she ran, skidding to a stop. There, hunched in the corner in a meditative crouch sat her _hah’ren_ , still and statuesque. His frame had lost some girth, the clothes he wore draping on his shoulders. The hems were more ragged than ever, and his feet were cut and raw. Had he been pacing the rough floors like a caged animal?

“Solas,” she breathed, her chest threatening to crush her. He lifted his face. His eyes widened with shock. The calm, cloud-grey eyes were gone, replaced with red chips of garnet that blazed with a fiery power. Strands of red magic trailed from the corners of his eyes. And though in appearance he had not changed so greatly, he seemed impossibly old. And yet despite the weariness seeping from his bones, his eyes held hers with such strength she could not look away. [“What did they do to you?”] she asked in Elvhen.

“Da’len,” he whispered, instantly straightening. The crimson briefly fled behind a look of wonder and disbelief, drinking in the sight of her. [“You are alive.”] It was not a question. At least she would not have to convince him she was not a spirit or a lucid vision.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” He stood, no sign of weakness to his posture. He stepped forward, leaning his face towards hers. Despite the poison lyrium spreading in spidery veins from the corner of his eyes, he looked on her softly, tenderly, and her stomach clenched.

“I am glad. I do not know how it is possible, but I am glad.”

“”The rift did not kill us. It sent us forward in time.” Dorian interjected.

“Time?” he questioned, his brows furrowing for a moment before suddenly smoothing into determination. “Then this … this nightmare can be undone. This world should have never existed.”

He had taken the information much more easily than she anticipated. Had he expected such a thing? The dread in his eyes was heavy and dark, unsettling her. “Aside from the obvious, what makes this world so dreadful? Is there more I should know about?”

A grave shadow passed over his features. “Yes, but I would not burden you with such knowledge. Not when, in the end, it will not matter.” He turned to Dorian, his expression dire. “We must find the staff. You are familiar with Alexius’ research, are you not?”

Dorian nodded.

“Good. Then hurry; we must be moving quickly.” A low rumble shook the ground, the walls, the ceiling. Rubble rained down from above and coated them in a filthy dust. It burned her lungs. Solas and Cassandra coughed until she thought their ribs rattled together. This was all her fault. Her friends had died or suffered for a year for a brief moment of curiosity. _I should never have touched that damned staff!_

“I’m sorry,” she managed, her throat tight with emotion. “I’m so, _so_ sorry.” Hot tears carved lines in the dust on her face. Her shoulder shook with sobs.

“There is no time for sorrow,” Solas urged. But still he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Regret cannot change the past, _da’len_ , no matter how long one wishes it could.” His voice broke at the end, drawing her gaze to his face with concern. His hand gripped her shoulder tighter. His eyes searched hers. Finally they tore away, and she found her breath had caught in her throat. “We must hurry, before –“

A shriek pierced her ears, sending all of them doubling over as they clutched the side of their heads. _Void take it!_ The sound numbed her mind, fracturing her thoughts. The ground beneath her shook violently, almost sending her to the floor. Suddenly, a familiar cool washed over, coating her. A hand reached out to steady her. When the floor lurched again, she reached for it, grasping it for security. But the quaking sent her further. She crashed into him instead. Solas clutched her, drawing her towards him as if to shield her from the rubble. And she should not have gripped him harder. It was selfish to wrap her arms around him, to relish the feel of his body wrapped around hers. Enjoying that, despite the hardship and his suffering, he was alive. It was so, _so_ selfish.

The quakes stopped. The last bit of dirt pelted the top of her head. But he made no move to release her. Perhaps it was her desperate imagination. It had to be. But she thought he drew her closer. His hands squeezed her shoulders. His chest expanded in a deep breath. Did he just sniff her hair? Her face turned hot beside herself. Just when she was about to relax into his hold, he pulled away, holding her out at arm’s length.

“Are you alright, Lissa?” Was his voice really that much warmer? She wanted to dismiss it. It would have been so _easy_. But there was a heat in his gaze that held her captive. Words did not form in her mind and so she simply nodded.

“Good.” He turned to Dorian but did not relinquish his hold on her shoulders. “If that creature is here, Corypheus will not be far behind.””

“Where would he keep something like that?”

“The staff? I cannot say. If such a thing were successful at time travel, it would be guarded safely in the upper levels.”

“Then we must get there at once.” Cassandra brandished her blade, her eyes hardening.

Lissa agreed. For better or for worse, time was of the essence. Ironic as it was. “Well then. Let’s hope time is on our side.”

As she pulled away to lead, Solas slowly dropped one hand to his side, resting the other on the small of her back, leading her out of the cell block.

Through scattered guards and dilapidated halls, they ventured. And at each encounter she found herself nearing Solas, desperate to protect him. But was she seeking him, or was he seeking her?

Their search led her to a dark doorway, the magic gathering outside the door in an electric cloud. It crawled over her skin, breaking out goosebumps across her freckles. The stench from behind the door made her stomach. With a quick spell, the lock was broken, and she pressed her palms against the rough wood.

"Are you ready?"

They nodded.

Sheshifted her grip on her staff, mana at the ready. With a sudden heave, she opened the door.

A warm, wet draft of dank air, ripe with decay, assaulted them first. Bodies long dead and many mutilated abominations, littered the corners. Some were frozen, like the time magic she had encountered in the Western Approach, a look of pained terror still etched on their decaying faces. Scattered throughout were odd trinkets, each buzzing with magic. It was almost too much, an assault on Lissa's senses, but she gathered her composure little by little.

 

Amid the turgid muck was a sensation she knew, a magic she had encountered before. Was it the staff? As they all carefully prowled around the room, she made it to the back where stood a familiar sight.

_The staff._

"Here it is!" she whispered sharply.

Down the hall, shouting and muffled warnings were heard. Cassandra drew her sword. "They're onto us. Be ready!"

Solas was placing wards already, just outside the door, his own mana crackling around him. "Find a way to brace the door! We must give them time."

Necessity urging her forward, Lissa reached for the staff, anticipating the same surge as before. But nothing happened. "Solas, it's not working!" _Stupid_ , she berated herself. _If I could just have more time, I could figure it out._ Damn it! If she were smarter, if she had studied harder— A year. What was the key? A memory sparked to life in her mind, a recollection of a comment Dagna had made. The Anchor was a key. A key that be able to open everything.

Cassandra grunted as the door shuddered, bracing herself against the wood. But she was not as strong as she had been a year ago. Solas gave a word of warning a moment later.

As the rattling of the door became louder, Lissa stiffened, pausing as she reached out for the staff. Her mark sparked and burned as she quickly tore off her glove.

"Use the Anchor!" Solas shouted, slamming his staff into the ground, his wards flaring to life and shocking those just on the other side of the door, giving them a short reprieve.

A very short reprieve.

There came a whistle, then, a thunk as an arrow split the door, throwing splinters down them.

"Archers!" Cassandra called, jutting her shoulder into the door. Another whistle, and another thunk, followed by a low growl. The arrow had broken through the door, landing a shallow blow on the warrior. A third arrow missed Solas' head by mere inches.

"No!" Lissa growled, leaving the staff. The air parted and she slipped through seamlessly, stepping out next to the archer. She struck him with her staff, calling on her mana to harden to a physical blade and strike him down. But there were too many. Before she was trapped, she slipped back, appearing back in the room, putting her attention to the door.

"There's too many!” Lissa warned. “Twenty as a guess!"

While Dorian skillfully pushed them back, Lissa sent them balls of flame, shards of ice. But they had mages of their own. She cried out in pain, looking down at a gash in her arm. Her robes ruined, blood already started to show even through the frosty gash. 

"We have to go," Dorian urged as the soldiers struggled to regroup. Her gaze shifted to Cassandra and dragged to Solas. Her expression wavered. “But…”

Cassandra blocked an arrow with her sword, deflecting it with more dumb luck than skill before it struck Lissa. "If you must leave, it will need to be soon!" she insisted, using her remaining bulk against the slowly crumbling door.

Lissa pressed her weigh against the door. They would not pass. They could not have them! Not them. Not _him_. She groaned with effort, ignoring the rough splinters that dug into her skin. In a bried moment, her eyes met his. Bruises began to rise to the surface of his skin and a thin trickle of blood ran down his temple. The dark circles beneath his eyes deepened, and the red veins of lyrium licked brighter across his skin. He lifted his eyes, gazing on her warmly, sadly. “You have to go, Lissa.”

Her jaw clenched. How was she supposed to leave him?

[“I can’t leave you!”] she admitted.

[“Then go back to me!”] he urged, startling her. He reached out, planting a warm, bloodied hand on her arm. [“Take the staff, vhenan,"] he said as a thud came from the other side of the door. "You must use your mark upon the staff."

Amid the sounds of chaos around her and the freezing pain spreading along her arm, she heard only one thing. "[What did you say?]" She trembled.

"[I was a fool, Lissa,]" he answered vehemently. "[Content to simply watch you, guide you. It was not until I lost you that I . . .]" his voice failed him and he shook his head.

Despite his advice, her feet were fixed to the ground. Thankfully, Dorian jumped to their aid and sent a burning spell through the crumbling door that gave them a bit of space.

Suddenly he grabbed her, tangling the fingers of one hand in her red tresses. "[Forgive me,]" he murmured as he bent and kissed her fiercely. Lissa’s gasp was lost in his mouth, and as her surprise faded, she clung to him, her fingers pressed firmly to the back of his neck as she returned every desperate kiss he gave her.

He tasted of sweat and blood and the hot tint of red lyrium, but he was still her _hah’ren_ , still her Solas, and as he tightened his grip, pressed her more insistently against him, she molded herself to him, tightening her grip on him. As his breath broke over her lips, she made a soft sound and gentled the kiss, her hand sliding to his chest where she could feel the rapid beat of his heart against her palm. Slowly, his fingers slid through her hair, gentle where they once had been desperate.

Lissa eventually pulled from Solas with a shuddering inhale, her hand slipping from him reluctantly. "Ir'abelas, Solas."

"Ir'abelas," he replied, watching with dark eyes as she slipped from his fingers once again, this time for good.

"There's no time," Dorian insisted sadly. "We both must go, or we all die." 

Her heart ripped as she walked away, rushing to Dorian’s side. Her hand hovered over the staff.

“Ar’lath ma, Solas!” she screamed over the chaos. Her heart, so full, too full, broke with the admission, watching as he fought off the oncoming wave of soldiers.

He turned his back on the attackers to grant her one last smile. “Ar’lath ma, da’len. I always have.”

Her anchor cracked and sputtered, drowning out the sounds of battle. The strange pulsing returned as the energy kicked back and forth between the mark and the staff. Lissa struggled to keep her hold on it, but slowly the black swallowed her, spitting her out violently.

What felt like an eternity later, Lissa slowly rose to her feet, clutching her head as waves of dizziness assaulted her.

"Lissa?" a familiar voice questioned in concern.

"Solas," she gasped. She reached out to him, arms outstretched to embrace him before her sanity took over.

He eyed her curiously, grey eyes narrowing. "You are injured. Are you alright?”

She grinned warmly, his confession burning in her heart, and the taste of his kiss still on her lips. "I am now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to see an AU version of this with @OneWingedSeraph's Inquisitor, Liadan Lavellan, check it out here! http://archiveofourown.org/works/4819925


	32. Preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Josephine put her mind to something, she spared no expense. It was astounding, really, the amount of detail and work that went into something so easily taken for granted. Like when she mentioned something about the draft in the Great Hall. For the next week, workers bustled in and out, searching for cracks and repairing it until it was suitable. Once her mind was decided, Lissa was certain that nothing would stand in the Antivan’s way. She rather admired that about her.

And now, her Advisor had her mind set on Halamshiral. Or rather, the finery. Each member of their party had to be at their finest, and of course, this had resulted in its own sort of fashion show, with Josephine, Vivienne, and Dorian as experienced consultants. Lissa was to have a say as well, obviously as Inquisitor. A handful, no a dozen, men and women circled Bull as they tucked and pinned, stitched and re-stitched the basting on a design. They circled his girth in an efficient tizzy, flitting about the room. From here, they looked like little hummingbirds, dipping and bobbing at the flower, (a rather broad, muscular flower), and their needles like the bird’s little beaks darting in and out. The fabric draped over their arms, their shoulders, flashed in vibrant colors like iridescent feathers. She found it amusing. Bull was none too enthused. He stood there, lips pulled down at the corners and his face tugged in a distinct “I hate you” frown.

In record speed, the ensemble was complete. Lissa smiled ear to ear, amazed to see her initial concept actually put to fabric. She applauded, and Josephine joined.

“My goodness! I had no idea that the ideas I had in mind could become so … solid. It is really a work of art. You, sirs and madams, are most talented.”

The head tailor bowed at the waist like a dancer, toe pointed and arms outstretched in a flourish. It was unnecessarily dramatic, which only confirmed he was, in fact, Orlesian.

“It ees my greatest pleasure, In-kwee-zee-tur!”

“My, my. Dear Bull, I have to say you are a veritable _block_ of splendor,” Dorian quipped appreciatively.

Indeed. When she had told Josephine what she would like to see Bull wear, she had no idea they could pull it off so well. Gold rings, thick like bangles, encircled his horns. The tips were capped with bold pieces of gold, one ending in a chain that met his earlobe. The wide pants he preferred had been refashioned in a subtle damask, black overlaid with gold that caught the light with each step. He was still very shirtless, but with a vest that covered his shoulders. It was a stiff velvet hemmed in gold. It was obnoxious, stately, and showed off his build.

“I dunno, Boss. I mean, I like it,” he turned, pausing to flex in the mirror – again – and hummed appreciatively at his bulk. “But it’s a bit over the top, don’t you think?”

“No one will miss you, that’s for sure,” Dorian added, his mustache quirking to the side.

“Don’t you see?” Lissa grinned. “That’s why it’s perfect! True, the Court isn’t fond of Qunari. But we can’t change that, and we certainly couldn’t hide you if we tried. They’re going to stare; why not make it worth their while? They will not have the option of being indifferent. If the Court is indifferent, we are invisible and powerless. As Qunari, they will want to hate you. So now they have to decide to hate you, or to love you. But they won’t be able to ignore you.”

Vivienne inclined her head towards her. “You know, darling, you’ve taken my advice to the next level. It is exactly the sort of thing one should expect in a world leader. I have to say, this attire, and your logic behind it, entirely meets my approval.”

“Fantastic!” Josephine quipped. “Bull, thank you for your time.” As the assistants began carefully peeling the pinned ensemble from his frame, Josephine raked a hand through her hair. “Alright. Cassandra, Cullen, Leliana, and Blackwall will be wearing the formal martial attire. Dorian, Vivienne, and Iron Bull have been fitted –“

“It really is a good thing I called my personal seamstress, darling.”

“Yes, thank you, Madame Vivienne.” Josephine cleared her throat to rattle off the remaining on the list. “Sera and Cole are not attending---“

Dorian gasped falsely. “Whyever not? It would be _so_ enjoyable to watch us be run off the ballroom floor by screaming, pom-pom clad bodies stuck with spiders and bees and rotting plums. I’m certain the Court would love us for it.”

The visual was too easily conjured in her mind. Yes, that had been exactly why she had decided they would be safer at Skyhold.

Josephine scowled. “So that leaves Solas, you, myself,” she paused to courtesy, “and Varric.”

“Don’t worry about me,” a smooth voice called from the hallway. “As much as I enjoy the thought of being pinned and stuffed like a roast nug, I think I’ll pass.”

Lissa pouted. “Oh, but Varric. You haven’t even seen what I got for you. It’s tastefully simple. I think you’ll like it! Please?” Even as she spoke, a swarm of assistants were ushering him towards the padded pedestal in the center of the room, surrounded by mirrors.

“Alright, alright! Quit pushing. Watch the needles. Sheesh.”

When all was fitted, Varric gave an appraising look in the mirror. A loose-fitted cream tunic paired with obsidian breeches made the base. Over it, a rich, blue tunic in similar cut to his signature red one was cinched at his waist by a black leather belt with silver trimmings. The deep folded cuffs were embroidered with silver threads that caught the light and threw it back in shimmering strands. Knee-high boots with leather ties and deep cuffs were glossy and stately. Overall, the look was formal, but retained his usual silhouette. He grinned roguishly. “I have to say, Shortcake; you have good tastes.”

She smiled. “Only the best for you, Varric.”

Josephine waited, her breath caught in her chest until Vivienne and Dorian gave satisfactory nods. She sighed. “Very well then. If it does not offend, your Worship,” she nodded her head to her, a sparkle brimming in her almond eyes, “Might _I_ be next?”

Lissa beamed. “But of _course_ , Josie! I simply can’t wait to see your dress!”

The Antivan bounced on her toes and started to dash off. She quickly returned to cast aside her clipboard and quill with a sheepish grin before skipping back behind the curtains.

Lissa waited, curious as the rustle of fabric and murmurs of handmaidens echoed from behind the curtained screen. Somehow, she had envisioned something similar to her daily garb: gold and poofy. 

Once she emerged, Lissa gasped. Gone were the puffed sleeves and voluminous ruffles. Instead, a flattering sweetheart neckline showcased her tawny complexion and subtle curves. The dress then teamed with folds and tucks and gathers, and all in her signature gold. She looked more like a princess than Lissa had ever seen.

“Josie …” she breathed, standing from her chair to near her on the pedestal, “you look _fantastic_.”

“Oh, I must admit, Inquisitor, I have always dreamed of having a dress like this!” She clasped her hands together and looked in the mirror, her cheeks darkening with a pleased blush. “I simply adore it.” It was so wonderful to see her friend so cheerful, admiring the gown, it was hard to remember that, in its own way, the folds of silk and chiffon were armor, defending against snide glances and deadly disapproval.

“It suits you.”

Varric slipped from the back, having shed his formal attire. “Hey, Ruffles. Nice look. I hardly recognized you without the sleeves.”

Leave it to Varric to be the smooth talker. She rolled her eyes, but Josephine took it all in stride.

“I wonder, without my sleeves, where I will hide my poison vials…”

Varric gave the slightest pause, his eyes narrowing on her for the briefest second. “I’ve played cards you, Lady Montilyet, and that is one bet I won’t be waging.” He exited quickly.

Josephine gracefully slipped behind the wooden screen, changing back into her normal attire. Layers of her garments were slowly draped over the top. Assistants scrambled to gather the pieces and delicately hang them back up. “That leaves – _oof_ \--- only Solas and you.” She emerged, smoothing out her skirt and tucking a stray curl back into her braid. “So then, our Apostate next? You _must_ be last. I want to leave you surprised.” She slipped next to her, bending to whisper in her ear. “I think you’ll like the result…”

She blushed instantly, and her heart throbbed with anticipation. She and Josephine had spent hours deliberating over their company’s attire. What would set them apart? What would get them noticed? What would get them killed? Vivienne had schooled on the past fifty years of fashion faux paus and the latest vogue to keep them within the accepted trend. (Glass masks were _so_ nine-fourty.) But of all the ensembles, aside from her own, she had spent more time imagining what _he_ would look like in the finery.

“You summoned me, Lady Montilyet?” Solas entered the room, hands clasped primly behind his back. He turned his head, inclining a polite nod to their fashion advisors. Perhaps she imagined it, but there seemed to be a hard edge of annoyance in his eyes. That is, until they turned towards her. They softened, then, and her gut clenched at the look. “Inquisitor,” he added with the slightest dip at the waist. “How can I be of service?”

Dorian was simply quivering, no doubt the sarcasm just waiting to boil over. Lissa jabbed him with her elbow in his side.

He yelped. “I just find it a bit humorous that mister raggedy-pants actually asked how _he_ could help _us_ in a matter of fashion.”

Solas raised his chin, looking down at Dorian along the sharp curve of his cheekbone. “Believe it or not, my understanding of fashion is quite extensive. However, I find it to be ineffectual to my purpose and therefore do not make it a priority.”

“We already _knew_ that, darling.” Vivienne purred.

“Alright, kittens. Put away the claws. We have work to do.” She grinned, offering Solas a humble grin. “If you don’t mind, we need to get you fitted for the Empress’ ball.”

“Ah! An evening of drunken revelry masking as a political scheme, complete with dancing and deadly consequences? I wouldn’t miss it.”

Oddly, he actually seemed genuinely enthused. “Well, I’m sure there will be at least some frilly cakes to keep your interest.”

He grinned, his eyes narrowing a bit and settling on her with a meaningful pause. “Yes, at the least.”

“Right this way, Master Elf.” The assistant bowed, measuring tape over his shoulder skimming the floor.

Solas turned and gave about bending slightly at the waist. Lissa blushed, but inclined her head to him. “Very well then,” said Josephine. “Let us see what it looks like on.”

Lissa waited, her breath tied up in her chest, her heart pounding while anticipation made her hands clammy. Her toes curled in her shoes as she imagined what it would look like when he finally stepped out from behind the curtain. Dorian leaned closer, his mustache almost tickling her face.

“Careful not to blush too much. He’d be sure to know your secret after all.”

Well, that happened to be just the thing needed to turn her red. He must have known it; he pulled away with a smug grin.

“You dirty Vint,” she whispered harshly, wishing the redness in her face would calm down.

“Don’t worry yourself with me. You’ll miss your favorite part.” He threw his eyes towards the pedestal in front of the mirrors. “Well, now that is a sight I never thought I'd see,” he raised his voice, raising one perfectly trimmed eyebrow in appraisal. “The man actually looks _decent_.”

Solas appeared to have ignored his comment and simply followed the leading of the tailors to the stool. They buzzed around him, pinning and tucking until it was perfectly sculpted against his body. A fitted jerkin of gold, crushed velvet appeared like burnished metal against his skin. A daring neckline revealed his collarbone and the smooth muscles of his chest. A thick red sash was neatly folded around his waist, and several belts were cinched over it. Tight breeches hugged shapely thighs and she swallowed, forcing her eyes to catch the rest of the details. His feet and calves were wrapped in black strips of fabric in his usual fashion, and over it were gold plates that looked more akin to armor than fashion. And draped over his shoulder was a wolf pelt, bright white and gleaming against the rich colors of the rest. It was tucked into the belt as he often did when the weather was colder and their trips longer.

Thankfully she was wordless, breathless and could make no sound to betray her feelings. It was a curse and a gift at the same time.

“Well, I hardly recognize the man without a tear in his clothing,” Vivienne offered, leaning back in her chair. She crossed her arms, looking down her nose as she appraised the fashion. “It will cause quite the gossip, having an Elf dressed in such finery. You know there are many Elvhen servants at Halamshiral, and relations with the Elves are a bit strained.”

“Yes,” Lissa offered, her voice a bit froggy at the start, “I imagine all of us will give them something to wag their tongues at, Solas the least.” She cleared her throat.

“You have a Qunari parading around shirtless and you’re worried an Elf will give them a start?” Solas laughed, a haughty laugh rife with pride. “You give me too much influence, Madame DuFer. But I do agree that I will not blend in with the Elvhen present at the palace at all. It would be much more beneficial to insist I am nothing more than manservant. This garb will convince no one.”

“Why not? We’re already bringing Bull, as you’ve said. But he’s not just a Qunari; he’s a member of the Inquisition. The Inquisition must set itself up as being different than everyone else. Just because Qunari may be sneered at in Halamshiral doesn’t mean Bull doesn’t deserve the best cloth we can order.”

“That may be true, darling, but think of the edge it could bring us were one of our own were to have an ear on the servants?” She turned to Solas. “No offense, darling.”

“None taken.”

“Solas, if we were to dress you in the standard attire, would you be able to blend in?”

He straightened. “I highly doubt it. I do not have the look of a servant. Were I to be announced as a servant, however, it might give some credence to claim. But in the end, no. I do not think it would be as convincing as we hope.”

Dorian crossed his arms. “Then why make him stand out even more?”

She arched one brow. “Just because you’re jealous of his outfit, Dorian, doesn’t mean you have to play so coy. You could just ask; we’ll redesign yours.”

“Ha!” He barked, straightening at her accusation. He leaned in to whisper. “I doubt that’s a game you want to play as I don’t intend on playing by the rules.” He shot a sly look, curling his lip just so.

No, no. That’s enough. I didn’t mean anything. Oh, Maker, please. Don’t –

“Solas?” Dorian questioned, leaning back casually in his chair. He spared a moment to examine his fingernails, black with ebony lacquer, just to extend the tortuous space. “You know, it’s true. I do think that outfit suits you quite well.”

Solas made no inclination of gratitude aside from a simple, “Thank you.”

“Which of our company designed it, I wonder? I really must ask them for some advice. It clearly shows an attention to detail. It somehow seems to suit you perfectly. Whomever it was must care a great deal about how you will look at this ball.”

Lissa jumped right in before he could elaborate on his theory. Dorian grinned smugly, but said no more.

For now.

“The important part is that he appears to be a member of the Inquisition. Whatever title we grant him for show will be little effect at the end of it all. Besides, we know that Briala will be there. If she was indeed Celene’s former lover, and is a potential power in these underhanded politics, having Solas as a preeminent member of our company will endear us to at least two powers in play: Celene and Briala. I doubt Gaspard cares much at all for much more than military force and power.”

“That is true,” Josephine added, taking in another look at the Apostate. “It does have its benefits, and I would not have suggested it otherwise.”

“Celene has always been a bit soft towards anything Elvhen,” Vivienne admitted with a sigh. “But it won’t win you points with the rest of the people trying to kill you.”

Lissa leaned forward, shaking her head. Was it really so hard to understand what she was wanting to accomplish? True, he looked fantastic in it. She stole another quick glance through her lashes. Her insides quivered. Yes, he looked _very_ good. She crossed her legs, hoping to still the tremors in her core. But there was more to it at stake here than her simple indulgences. Her actions here would define the Inquisition to all of Orlais. She wanted everyone to know that all races were valued, whether you were a Mage or not. “Just because Elves may be treated less than people in the palace doesn’t mean we should encourage that behavior, even if it would profit us. What we do in Orlais will be our history. People will look back on this for thousands of years. What will they know about us?” she urged. “What I want them to know is that everyone, regardless of race or creed, was my friend, that we put all that other stuff aside to save the world.”

When the last of the words had tumbled over her lips, when her heart had finished its say, she sighed and slipped deeper into her chair. Lectures had never been her strong suit. And the last thing she wanted was to upset her friends. But her passion had bubbled over; she had not been able to stop the words once they started.

She waited for their retort, for anyone one of them to say something. But they didn’t. She looked up, finding Solas’ eyes resting warmly on her in approval. “You have a kind heart, _da’len_. I am certain that a thousand years from now, it could not be clearer.”

“You make it so difficult for me to tease you when you get all passionate about things.” Dorian grinned, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Oh, who am I kidding? I am expert at teasing. Since you’re in the disclosing mood, shall we discuss what other things you’re _passionate_ about?”

“You know as much as I enjoy seeing our Apostate companion standing about in decent attire, I rather have better things to do,” Vivienne reminded sharply. “And I do believe we have one more look to approve, yes?”

Solas seemed not the least offended to be ushered off so quickly. He descended the stool, and held her gaze until he could no longer.

“Zees way, Een-kwee-zee-tur,” the head tailor called with a bow, gesturing towards the screen. She stood and forced down the hard knot in her throat. She threw a look at Josephine, hoping for some encouragement, but instead she found a dour look.

That was not comforting.

As she was ushered behind the modesty panels, a handful of maidservants made quick work of undressing her, shedding her casual garments aside like chaff in the wind. One reached for her undergarments and she instinctively swatted her hand away.

“I … don’t think that is necessary, do you?”

Puzzled, they looked back and forth to each other. Suddenly, the head tailor poked his head around the corner. She squealed, and so did he as he reeled backwards from the gust of icy wind that knocked him on his rear. She could hear Josephine titter from behind the screen, and Dorian had no problems with a deep guffaw at his sake.

“I’m … so sorry, sir, but you startled me…”

He returned, a deep scowl tightening his pointy features. “Zee dress is a building, your undergarments are the foundation! No, we must have you in something better than these _chiffons de simple plat._ ”

“Um, alright.”

He huffed, slipping back out from behind the screen as he picked at the ice chips clinging to his obtuse mustache. He muttered a few words in disgust. She wasn’t sure, but an educated guess was that it were a string of curses.

“Now, now, darling. Is that any way to speak to a lady?” Vivienne demurely corrected. Lissa grinned, focusing on the outside conversation as her entire body was exposed to the prying fingers of the servants.

They handed her new garments, a lacy under thing that seemed entirely too impractical. Oh, Andraste. She might be fending off an assassin. How was she to do that if the lace was scratching her thighs? And there was not nearly enough fabric. What sort of foundation rested on a piece of string? Lissa briefly considered her generous curves and looked down at the skimpy slip of lace and cord. This was supposed to be a foundation? Oh, no. How did one even wear this?

With the maidens’ instructions, she slipped it on, pulling it up over her full, freckled thighs. Despite its skimpiness and impracticality, she actually felt a little more confident as she spied herself in the mirror. It was fashioned to sit low on the hips, and was barely holding itself up with these strips of fabric. At certain angles, it hardly looked as though she were wearing anything. And yet, she found herself admiring it.

Hmm. Not half bad.

There was a clap of hands, and the women brought out a fabric chest piece, about to strap it to her. It was only too late when she realized her fate: it was a corset.

Oh, Maker, what did I step in?

The dragon boned corset was quickly cinched around her waist, shaving off at least four whole inches around her middle and giving her an impossible shape. It hoisted her full breasts into perfect mounds that rested temptingly at the top of the bustier. There were even holsters cleverly woven in for dagger or a rune. Finally, a crinoline was tied around her waist. Even without the dress, she felt powerful, alluring.

Well, seems the old codger knew what he was talking about. She took a few moments to turn, espying her figure in the glass. Her curves had been molded and shaped to perfection. She had not realized it were possible before to appreciate her own body, but now, she was grateful she had so much material to worth with. Shapely was only the start. She was … sexy. She blushed at the realization.

Another stiff clap pulled her from her reverie. 

As the maidservants slipped on the fabric over her form, they flitted about, darting to fro. It was a bit disorienting, like being caught in one of Sera’s grenades. She feared to move lest she be stung by one of the needles.

“Ah, I think we have something truly great here,” the head tailor insisted as he turned her on the pedestal to face the mirror.

Lissa gasped. The fabric washed over her in a rich blue so dark it appeared like the midnight sky, only a hint of blue that shone in the brightest light. Her shoulders were mostly bare, with a delicate cap sleeve of raven’s feathers that draped down her back. The skirt of the dress billowed out in layers of chiffon circled the hem of the dress like storm clouds. She was sharp as lightning, bold as thunder, and every bit as intimidating as the storm.

“My dear, you are perfection. It absolutely suits you,” Vivienne insisted in a purr, encircling her with an approving eye.

“I think the Court will be stunned if my reaction is anything to measure,” Dorian insisted. “You look ravishing.”

The head tailor clapped his hands, and she was carefully stripped of the pinned pieces until they could be completed.

“Well, now that the clothing is fit for a world leader, we get to do the fun part,” Vivienne added. Something about the tone of her voice and the predatory look in her eye made Lissa think it would be anything but fun. Her throat suddenly dry, she dared a reply.

“What do you mean, Vivienne?”

“My dear, it is more than clothing that gives one the appearance of a lady. And you are not just any Lady. You are the leader of the Inquisition. You must be a vision of holiness and power. The fibers of your being must be remade.”

That most certainly did not sound fun. In fact, it sounded rather painful.

“Oh, don’t give me that face, darling. You can trust me. Whatever price it is to look your best, it is worth it. My personal beautician will be assisting you. Though Maker knows he will have some catching up to do.”

Her personal beautician. The personal beautician to the court Enchantress. Oh, no, absolutely not. There was no reason for her to be prodded and plucked to some Orlesian standard of beauty. It was bad enough they had to make it impossible to breath to attain a perfect shape (although she could not ignore the results). But a corset would come off at the end of the night. What permanent changes did they intend on enacting on her?

“What sort of … catching up do you think he’ll have in mind?”

 

 

Admittedly, the first part was not as bad as she had anticipated. An entire portion of Skyhold had been dedicated to “procedure.” The clinical term had her worried at first. But as she stepped into the dedicated rooms, she thought she might write a letter of thanks to Celene, Vivienne, and the assassin for making this a necessity. Curtains had been hung to block out light from any windows and delicate lanterns of silver through light in lacey patterns across the walls. None of the stone was left to be seen. Every inch had been draped in fragile silks. They draped from the ceiling, hung down the walls, and pooled in vibrant puddles along the floor. Rugs of the softest furs covered the floor. She was not sure what they had planned for these rugs after this “procedure,” but she would have to convince Josephine to let her keep at least one in her quarters. It was almost as wonderful as walking across the soft, green moss that green along the river rocks in her parents’ stream. Silver mirrors made the room look much larger than it was, and the effect was like taking a deep breath, giving her soul room to spread out.

“Right this way, Your Worship.”

Lissa nodded, not seeing any reason to argue. The woman smelled of soap and honeysuckle, and the heady aroma of sandalwood drifted in the air. She shuffled her feet to take in the soft furs as she followed behind her escort. She was ushered behind a screen and urged to strip, and suddenly all of her suspicions came flooding back. Were all of the niceties simply there to lure her into a false sense of peace? Tentatively, she obliged. A silken robe, the whitest she had ever seen, was draped over the top. She slipped it around her naked body, enjoying how it glided against her skin.

Well, let’s get this over with.

“Oh my.” As she came around the screen, a clawed tub had been moved to the center of the room. (How exactly had they moved it so quickly?) A thick cloud of steam curled from the water. The surface glistened as little pockets of what she assumed were oil drifted on top, broken up by flower petals of all kinds. As she approached, two women began spooning in handful after handful of pink grains that looked like little shards of quartz. Why would she need quartz in the bottom of the tub? But as they stirred the water, it dissolved. A salt perhaps? A small, silver table sat within arm’s reach. A glass goblet and a pitcher of water were perched neatly atop it.

“The bath is ready, my lady,” one bowed, gesturing for her to enter the near boiling water.

She hummed in thought. “What will keep me from boiling alive?”

“The heat will draw out impurities of the skin. It is an essential part of the beautification process.”

So, boiled alive it was.

She shed the silken robe, a waiting handmaid scooping it from her attentively. A bit self-conscious, she was grateful to be beneath the water, despite the tingling burn it brought to her skin. Even though it was just near scalding, a hot soak seemed the least tortuous thing she could imagine. All in all, it was not a bad experience.

At least, until they swarmed her. Was there no sense of privacy in Orlais? Was not even a bath considered private? More women in white linens descended on her like scavengers. They tugged on her hair, working through her curls with oils and creams. They brought a stone and began scraping her skin. When she protested in pain, they told her it was normal. And then and there she was certain: Orlais was a cauldron of vain insanity. They seemed annoyed when she asked why they needed to shred her skin, but they explained it just the same. Apparently, dead skin was unsightly, and this would rejuvenate her skin growth. Once she was stinging and pink from both the heat and the scraping, her hair was wrapped on her head and she was ushered out of the bath. Then a paste, much like a poultice, was applied all over her skin. When she caught sight of it over her body, it reminded her of the stone armor of the Avvar, except it smelled like crushed herbs and flowers and not like druffalo droppings.

Once they had slathered the paste over her entire body, they wrapped her up with strips of muslin. It was uncomfortably similar to the death rituals of the Nevvarran people which she had studied. She focused on the ceiling, looking past the handmaidens as she blinked away the sweat that threatened to sting her eyes. Once she was sufficiently mummified, she was half led, half carried to a table draped in pillows. She lied down as requested and, surprisingly, they left her to ruminate in the stuff.

Lissa stared up at the ceiling and stole a sigh of relief. Thank the Maker. She had no idea that being beautiful took so much work. Perhaps I do not want to be beautiful, she wondered wryly. If she was not attractive on her own, it seemed like too much pain and work to attend to all these frivolous details. Still, some of it she found she enjoyed. Her hair had never been so easy to manage. They had raked a comb through her waves without a tangle. She would have to remember the oil trick. But the skin scraping habit would not be adopted. She could still feel the tingling pulse across her body.

The heat of the room and the tight wrappings made her sweat. It ran down her forehead and into her eyes. It seemed like a waste to sweat so much right after a bath. When she thought she could take it no longer, the women returned and began carefully unwrapping her, depositing the rags in a basket.

“This way, my lady.”

She was led back to the tub where she was not even permitted to wash herself. They carefully wiped away the oils and herbs from the paste that had stuck to her and rinsed her oiled hair with rose water. With far too many hands, she was patted dry and finally able to cover herself with the robe.

“Well, darling, you seem to be off to a good start. They really can do wonders when they have the time. It’s a shame we are not afforded more of it, but we must work with what we have.”

Why did she feel she meant her and not time?

“Well, you were very generous to call on your personal beautician. He obviously knows a great deal of the industry, his work as testament.” She complimented in practiced fashion. It was a vain compliment, and Vivienne knew it. But it did not stop her from preening.

“Of course, my dear. I worked closely with the Queen. To be at her side, one should look like she works with royalty. It’s rather a good thing you have me here, or you might still be traipsing about in that braid of yours.”

Lissa chuckled. “Well, the braid is rather practical for every day, but you are right: Orlais is anything but practical.”

“I have already discussed it with your Advisors. You are to return here sharply after dinner.”

What? There was more to be done? What skin would she have left? They did not leave for the ball for two weeks’ time. Did she have this to look forward to every night until their departure?

“Again?”

Vivienne laughed. “Darling, you poor thing. Your complexion cannot change overnight. If we are to have you glowing, you will be pruned and pampered for the next two weeks.”

No. No. Oh, no.

“When you get to sit a tub full of buttermilk and roses, you will thank me. The first part is always the most uncomfortable. But no one will be able to take their eyes off when we’re through.”

_That’s because I will be a piece of walking, raw meat._ Her skin seemed to burn at the thought. Two more weeks? Well, no time like the present to practice her courtly manners.

“I could only hope to come out as half as lovely as you are, Lady Vivienne. I am truly indebted to you.”

She grinned. “Just so, dear. Now you’re talking like you’re ready for the Court. See? It’s been good for you already.”

The sweat ran down the back of her neck, and she was not sure if it was from heat or dread.

 

Finally free of the beautifying session, she wrapped her hair all atop her head, securing it with a stick as the women had showed her. They carefully wrapped it, securing it with silk strips. Finally permitted to dress, she slipped on the simple tunic and breeches. The attention exhausted her, but she supposed it was good practice. No doubt she would be a key figure at the ball.

But this was not Halamshiral. This was Skyhold, the closest thing to any she has had to a home. Now this vanity and pointless pride was being touted in her own home. At least while she was still here, she was determined to keep at least one thing sacred.

With hopeful steps, she made her way to the library. She hesitated momentarily at the stairs, stealing a peek into the rotunda, hoping to catch a glimpse of her tutor. She found him, as expected, pacing the room with a thoughtful dip to his brows. His feet skirted the floor silently as he murmured to himself, occasionally tapping his chin and shaking his head in frustration. She grinned and slipped up the stairs.

It was an easy thing to find a chair nestled near a window, sequestered from the rest of the library. But it was near enough to hear the quiet shuffle of the other patrons which made for a pleasant background noise. The sun warmed her gently through the window, and the large chair was cushioned and comfortable. But her favorite part of this particular chair was the clear view to the first floor below. If she bent her leg beneath her, and shifted just so, she was rewarded with a glimpse of Solas’ form, studiously bent over the table in research. And, from here, she was conveniently out of sight from the view of her _hah’ren_. She grinned, biting her bottom lip as a faint blush warmed her cheeks.

“Enjoying the view?”

She squeaked in surprise. Dorian chuckled. “Well, don’t let me stand in the way of a good staring, although frankly I rather think it would do your eyes better if I did.” His tone was full of his usual sass, but his eyes softened. He inclined his head towards her. “How are you?”

She sunk back in the chair, giving the question the consideration he deserved. She was stretched thin, emotionally and mentally, what with all this Halamshiral business. Her sessions with Vivienne on etiquette and manners had been particularly challenging. Although the Enchantress meant well, she never knew how close Lissa came to bursting into tears. “As well as we all are, I suppose.”

He neared her, perusing the bookshelf behind her head. He tilted back the spine of a book, taking a moment to read the first page. “So, I take it you’re braving a face, while secretly knocking your knees together while you trim your rather fantastic facial hair, questioning the course of your life in the mirror?”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Alright, so maybe you’re not doing that while you trim your facial hair.” He stroked his chin, giving her a crooked grin. But then he turned, adopting that caring softness about his face she so appreciated. “But, considering what you and I have seen, I imagine it isn’t as easy for you anymore.”

Her chest dropped. Yes, she knew exactly what he meant. She had watched as her friends threw themselves at the enemy on her behalf, on behalf of a different future. She still had not cleared her mind of the visions. He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder.

“You know as well I do. We’re not guaranteed tomorrow. If you have found someone worth taking a chance on, you should take it while you can.”

Is that why Dorian teased her so? She felt a dark chuckle bubble from her throat before she could stop it. She did not really want to stop it. “Yeah, well … maybe I don’t _for_ that person. What if I’m not doing anything in _their_ best interest?” She was the Inquisitor. It would not be right to invite someone into her life when she had no idea what could happen! If, Maker help her, she actually did reveal to Solas her feelings, and in the most bizarre chance he decided to share them … what would happen at the end of it all? Somehow, she had a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that the cost to stop all of it was higher than anyone cared to admit. This mark was killing her. She could feel it in small measures every day. Even if she survived the encounter with Corypheus and every terrible thing between that villain and now, the mark would eventually claim her life. She could not ask someone to love her. Not like that. It would hurt them too much in the end.

In truth, she supposed her life had not changed so greatly from when she was in the Circle. She may be free to study magic as she wished, free to see the world, and free to sleep with the balcony doors wide open. But her life, as it had always been, belonged to the Greater Good. As a Mage, she was created by the Maker to ‘serve man.’ And now, as the Inquisitor, as the marked Herald, she was altered to save man. Her life was not even her own. How could she offer herself to anyone else when she did not even own her life?

She sighed. Her hand drifted to her lips, and she could still recall the press of his lips against hers. Her chest ached with longing. A thrum of pleasure buzzed low in her center. When his lips met hers, she felt that someone saw her for who she was, not some weighty title or position. It would be wonderful to revel in the feeling, being loved as a simple, plain woman. But it would be a selfish thing, to invite his feelings.

He scowled at her. “What?” He squawked, “You think I was talking about that unwashed Apostate? Hah!” He knelt down, lowering himself to level a warm gaze. He reached out, grasping her hand in his and wrapping it up. “Isn’t worth taking a chance on _yourself_?” His eyes sparkled as he squeezed her hand.

The air had somehow left her lungs. He … he wanted her to do something like that? For _herself?_ It did not seem right. It felt like it went against everything she knew. It would be selfish, after all! And was not she supposed to be beyond those feelings? She was the Inquisitor! The world’s Herald. Whatever magic she had happened upon, whatever the Maker had allowed, it alone was capable of saving the world. Such a power could only come at a great cost. To sacrifice her convenience, her ambition, at the cost of the lives of the world was a small honor. It was hard, yes. But someone had to do it. No, she determined. She could not afford to be selfish. The world could not afford it.

“But … I couldn’t …”

Dorian raised a brow. “You _could_ , and that’s what’s making these moral justifications flicker through your mind. Hmm?”

Her head dropped and her chest compressed in a sigh. He took the silence as admission.

“I see. Lissa, it is not wrong to do something for yourself. Look around. You see the Maker in everything, yes?”

She nodded, curious.

“What’s the point of it all? The flowers? The sunsets? My perfect physique? What function does it all have?”

The question was unusual, but valid. What was the point in letting there be beauty in the world? It had no function. It simply existed to be enjoyed. And oftentimes, she found the enjoyment of such things to be soul nourishing. A fresh wind after a hard storm drifting through the rafters often invigorated her, gave her hope that someday, she would walk free out of that tower. Someday she would be free. After the events at Adamant, the sweet tartness of a tree-ripened berry reminded her that, even among thorns, there was so much life. And when trapped in the future, amid the terrible stench of failure and death, with screams just beyond and the terrible howl of a dragon shaking the entire building, a simple kiss held enough power to grant her courage to do the unthinkable: leave her love as she watched him die.

“I … I suppose it is simply good for the soul.”

“Exactly! Doing something simply because you enjoy it does not make it inherently immoral. And, though it would be wildly inappropriate, you could even justify it as doing something for _me_.”

She scrunched her nose and snorted. “What?”

“I was there, you know, in the future. With you. While you …” He trailed off, letting her mind fill in the details.

“Yes,” she snapped too quickly, desperate to cut him off. “What of it?”

“What I saw was my dear friend, who is apparently desperately in love, find a moment of peace with someone who just might be as in love with her as she is. If that excuse for a kiss was any indication.”

She cleared her throat, fighting to force down the burning rising to her face. “I thought it was a lovely kiss…”

“Indeed!” He laughed. “Seeing you truly happy is incredibly powerful for the rest of us. You may not know it, but we actually care a great deal about how our valiant Herald feels about life during this tragedy. If you of all people can find some shred of happiness in the cursed world, the rest of us can have _hope_. ‘Maybe,’ they’ll think, ‘so can I.’”

A serrated sigh sawed from her lungs. He had a point in his words, and that was the worst of it. She could justify it all she wanted, but now there was another voice in her head. With her dutiful sense of morality out of the way, the only thing left standing between her and a bumbling confession was a rising sense of fear.

He must have felt the dread welling up through her mana. He cut her thoughts off with a wave. “Now, I had some thoughts on the matter, if you care to hear it.”

She cocked an eyebrow. It was easier to tease than to accept the fact that she was a dreadful coward. “Are you going to give me flirting advice, Dorian? You know, I don’t think I could pull off your particular brand of panache.”

He feigned offense. “Of course not. To insist such a thing insults my ridiculously boring but thoroughly effective pedigree. But I _can_ offer you some advice. Whether or not you choose to use it would be up to you.”

Her heart pounded in her chest. Was she actually considering acting on her feelings for him? She leaned forward slightly, stealing a glance past her friend to spy on her tutor below. An instant ache gripped her chest. There was no denying it, not to herself, or even those around. She did love him. Her lips were suddenly dry, but a flicker of courage flared within her chest.

“Tell me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what happens next chapter? JUST GUESS. :D


	33. The Breaking Point (NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you and welcome to all the new readers! Welcome aboard the good ship Solas/Trevelyan! ~~There's no turning back now hahahaha~~
> 
> Your kind words are so undeserved, and I am so grateful for you all! <3 <3 <3 I have the best readers in the world!

The steady hoof-beats kept time with her pulse, helping to keep her heart from racing away without her. _Oh, Maker, preserve me..._ Her stomach felt like it had somehow been twisted upside down. The butterflies were impossible to keep still. She was not certain if it were nerves or the copious amounts of pressure in her sides ( _Thank you, dragon-boned corset_ ), but every bump and lurch of the carriage threatened to disclose the contents of her stomach all over the floor. Despite the mountains of gossamer and silk and lace swimming around her lower half, it was impossible to keep warm. A constant chill draped over her like a thin cloak. She went to flip the page on the notes she had taken from Vivienne just as the carriage surged forward over a bump. Her shaky hands lost their grip, and the book fell to the floor with a thud.  
  
"Easy, Shortcake," Varric urged from the opposite bench. "You'll be fine. You've got this."  
  
She swallowed a knot in her throat and managed a weak smile.

"Really," he insisted. "You're a vision of perfection. Now you just have to learn to relax. Look at Chuckles, here. So stoic, so distant.” He scowled. “So utterly silent on the matter..." he growled through his teeth, shooting him an insistent look.

Solas turned from gazing out the window, raising a quizzical brow. "Hmm?"

It was bit disappointing to note that her _hah’ren_ had spent the majority of their travels locked on shadows outside the window. He had barely laid eyes on her at all. Dorian had insisted he wouldn’t be able to ignore her. But, Maker’s tears, he was doing a fine job now.

Varric shook his head in hopelessness, and Cassandra simply grunted, crossing her arms across her stiff uniform. The luxurious attire had been her idea, but now she rather envied Cassandra’s simple militaristic cut, her lack of corsetry. She attempted to take a deep breath, foiled by dragonbone biting into her ribs.

_Oh, Maker..._

 "I appreciate the encouragement, Varric,” she replied through a forced grin.

Surprisingly, Solas turned from the window, setting a steady gaze on her face. "The Dwarf is correct, Lissa," he complimented, twisting her stomach further. His voice was smooth as velvet, and low with sincerity. Despite the fire it started in her chest, her skin crawled with goosebumps. "You are a vision.” Did his brow soften? She thought for a moment his eyes rimmed with dark intensity, but as soon as it was there, it was replaced with his distant, cool disposition. A flutter of disappointment deflated her.

"You will have everything you need to make a good impression on the court,” he continued in a scholarly tone. “Although, I fear my association with you would be frowned upon. Dealing with an elf will gain you little favors, even one so handsomely dressed as I."

A sudden heat crawled to her ears. Did he know about her selfish purpose? Had Dorian outed her? Maybe that was why he had been so distant. A flush rushed to her face, burning the tips of her ears. Dorian would have meant well, surely. But something was definitely …different. At any rate, she was glad Solas had not suddenly changed his mind about the clothing. The design looked striking on him, and she could hardly bear the sight of him before her insides turned to mush. How tempting the cut in the tunic, exposing his pale, marbled chest and striking contours of his collarbone. Yes, he would definitely stand out at the ball. And, as usual, he was right: it would not necessarily aid the Inquisition to be associated with him.

Suddenly, a stroke of panic gripped her chest. She turned to him, too quickly for subtlety, "You're not going to leave, are you?" She regretted she blurted it out and cast a quick glance towards Varric and Cassandra. Even if Cassandra did notice, she was too oblivious to actual romance to realize the significance in her comment. Tethras, however, was well versed in the subtleties of human feeling. She cautiously measured their expression. Cassandra seemed unaware to her slip, and Varric was trying too hard to appear oblivious _. Curses_. Hopefully, Solas had not noticed. _Or worse_ , she thought _, perhaps he did not care…_ Maybe it was better not to know. She turned back to Solas, and a warm gaze met her in reply.

"No, I would not leave during the ball." He turned back towards the window, his voice brightening with the sound of amusement. "It should be quite entertaining."

 

* * *

 

Two hours. Her lower back ached. Between the dragonbone corset and the less than luxurious coach, her muscles were begging to be stretched. Somehow, her companions all seemed to be sleeping. Cassandra always did have a knack for sleeping in the most deplorable conditions. She sighed despairingly. How did Vivienne manage? This truly was the test of any lady.

 _And we're not even at the Palace yet_ , she grimaced.

As carefully and as quietly as she could, she wriggled and bent, trying to keep the voluminous gossamer folds from straying from her side of the coach and drinking in the deepest breaths she could manage.

"Are you uncomfortable?" Solas whispered, shocking her heart to near stopping.

"Maker, Solas, I thought you were sleeping," she whispered back harshly, clutching her lifted chest as she caught her breath. "Only a little. It will certainly teach me to appreciate the robes of our order," she chuckled, nestling back into her little corner, scooping up the folds of dress away from his ankles.

"Why not stretch out?" he suggested simply, his gaze still out the window. "There is plenty of room on the bench."

A nervous chuckle bubbled up from her throat. "I wouldn't dare impose. Besides, you know I've dealt with worse." She looked back down into her lap, thankful the exorbitant amount of fabric hid her wringing hands.

"It is not imposing if it is an invitation," he stated simply. His eyes held hers evenly, unflinching. Oh, if she could only know what he was thinking! "It would be better to rid yourself of what physical tension you have before the mental and emotional tensions of the evening begin."

"Yes, that's...probably true..." she managed in a shy whisper. She looked him over, trying to read something, anything, from him. But he simply leaned against the edge of the carriage, staring into the nothingness ahead of him, his slender hand resting on his chin, and his ankle resting on his opposite knee. He was cool and composed, and she was not a little jealous. Swirling her tongue within her dry mouth to loosen her tongue, she replied, "If you insist..."

Still wary of the gown, she turned facing him, pressing her back against the edge of the coach, and gingerly stretching out her legs in the small space between them. In the quiet, each move was far too loud, each tinkle of jewelry sounded like a crack of lighting, each shift on the bench a rumble of thunder, every drag of gossamer the sound of a rushing downpour. Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a wary hiss. _Why must finery be so loud?_ This position was hardly any better, but she was thankful he did not make an ordeal over the sounds of her fidgeting.

"That hardly seems to be a better situation," he commented, still not turning his face towards her.

He was right, for both her and him. Her gown threatened upon his territory and her back was not in any way relieved. He was too polite to be direct, to tell her she was encroaching on what small space he had. But she knew that was the heart of his statement. It had to be.  
  
“I am so sorry…” she meekly apologized, wishing her dress would swallow her up. She shrunk back to her little corner, drawing her knees close to her and bundling the gown beneath her.

There was a strained silence as she fought with her muscles to remain absolutely still. Her lower back began to quiver with effort.

“You refuse my generosity? I am hurt, Inquisitor.”

Confused, she turned to meet his self-assured, cockeyed smirk, one brow raised in mock injury. Her confused expression must have encouraged his frankness. His voice was still barely a whisper. “Come here.” He raised his left arm over the back of the bench, creating an opening next to his side. Her ribs grabbed her lungs, squeezing them like the maws of a great bear, crushing the air from her _. Is he suggesting…?_ She hesitated, looking from the spot at his side and to his eyes, again just to be sure, but the consistently calm gaze never changed. Oh, what a cruel and wonderful invitation. Willingly, he invited her into his arms, but not for the reasons she wished. Would it be fair to him, to place herself so close to him? It was graciously offered on behalf of her comfort, on behalf of the mission, but she was going to appreciate it much more personal reasons. Was it fair to enjoy serendipity? A voice in her mind suddenly schooled her. “Enjoy yourself. It’s a sin to simply have pleasures.” She worked the knot in her throat. Dorian’s advice came back again, echoing in the canyons of her mind. Well, if she was going to try, she might as well start now.

Slowly, she slid her rump across the bench until she was in the offered space. A firm weigh rested on her shoulder. A snap of realization told her it was his hand. Her lungs suddenly found the ability to breathe, taking in a sharp lifeline of air. With gentle, affirming pressure, he pushed her back, until she touched him. At the first brush of fur, her back arched, resistant to be so close.

 _So intimate_.

But the pressure of his touch was constant, kindly urging her backward. Finally, she was against him, and her heart pumped a roaring torrent of blood through her ears. She longed to hear the hoof beats if just to slow her raging pulse, but the rush and heat drowned it out. The rough fur tickled her back, and beneath it her skin was keenly aware of his sturdy frame, the crook of his shoulder and then press of his side. The thought of it threatened to melt the skin from her bones. She was sure she would boil. Was this really something she could enjoy?

“Now you may relax.”

 _How funny. Relax_. It was so wonderfully, terribly cruel. She did her best to appear as if she could enjoy her new station platonically, as nothing more than a colleague, up against him, his arm around her, with his heart drumming between her shoulder blades.

 _Maker, forgive me…_ she blushed deeply, thankful for the dark of the coach. _Oh, if Dorian saw me now…_ Her lips curved in a smirk.

Eventually, necessity demanded she pull her legs up on the remainder of the bench. And, as he suggested, this was a far more comfortable position. Her lower back was supported by his side, and her head was resting comfortably against his chest. Freedom from the cramped cabin allowed her feet space to stretch out, no longer imprisoned by mounds of fabric. A soothing warmth slowly ebbed in her veins. Were it magic, it was extraordinarily subtle, even if the effect was enjoyably potent. Eventually, her mind found the same relaxation her body had. Her eyes fluttered, and lulled by the even _click-clack-click_ of hooves and the steady thump of his heart, she slipped into a peaceful sleep.

 

*    *    *

 

The night was cool, but not chilly. Starlight speckled, bright and brilliant, until the rich black was almost washed in silver. A full moon hung low in the sky, and only a few grey clouds dotted the skies. The dark silhouettes of trees, branches nearly bare from winter, were rimmed in silver moonlight. In the distance, sounds of music and bubbling laughter drifted down. _Guests of the ball, no doubt_. Whistling wind coursed through the space, bringing a slight prickle to her skin. With quick motions, she rubbed her forearms to ward away the goosebumps.

“Are you cold?” a familiar voice questioned, sending a prickle tingling up her spine.

“No, I’m –“ She turned, catching her mouth agape at the sight him.

Solas’ garb was not what the tailor had designed, and yet it encompassed every bit what she imagined for him. A wolf pelt still draped over his right shoulder and was tucked into his belt. But instead of crushed gold velvet, it looked like somehow metal had been woven into a fabric. The gold was hammered into a quilted pattern – or was it scales? – and wrapped his form in a pleasing silhouette. He was regal, commanding. He stood straight, arms poised behind his back. In this regalia, he seemed more like an officer than a wandering Apostate. He seemed somehow accustomed to the look, and it was certainly pleasing. And yet, somehow, it was not quite ‘Solas.’ Alas, visions in the Fade rarely were.

“Well, that is what I had in mind.” Her bare feet pressed across the grass to near him, circling the vision with a grin. “And yet somehow I’m glad it isn’t what you wear all the time. It’s nice, yes, but …” She shook her head. “It just doesn’t seem like _you_.”

The vision chuckled. “And what is it that Solas should look like?” He looked down at her, amusement brightening his eyes.

Thankfully, in this dream, she had not the gouging press of a corset in her ribs even if her silhouette maintained the perfect shape. She plopped down along the incline of the grassy slope to steal a restful glance at the sky. “It’s hard to say. That seems to fit, somehow, but it says … militaristic. Commanding. Political. Everything about it seems to have been constructed to have a message.”

“You would be correct. Is that not why you wanted this look in the first place?” Solas neared her, reclining artfully alongside her in the grass. The shapely length of his thighs was hard to ignore. Well, if she had not the boldness to appreciate beauty in the Waking, at least in the Fade she could appreciate his form. “I guess it should say … kind. Intelligent.” She hummed in thought, leaning back on the mound of hair piled on her head. “Something a bit more subdued, maybe,” the words bubbled in a chuckle.

“Oh? Does that mean you think him boring?” He shifted, lifting himself up on one elbow to peer over her. The moon in the sky behind him rimmed the tips of his ears with silver, and his eyes seemed to be made of starlight. A smile played at the corners of his full lips. “Or perhaps you think him uninteresting?”

She chuckled. “Not at all. Quite the opposite. Only, this doesn’t seem to suit someone who finds interest in travelling the world for the hint of a thousand year old dream or makes friends with spirits. I guess when I think of Solas I think of something more …” She bit her lip in thought, forcing herself to see past his face and stare at the stars, “…practical. He’s interested in how things work, how make things better.” Her chest swelled as she recalled the passion in his voice as he told her the most fascinating tales of things he had seen in the Fade, or the distant look in his eyes as he described places she could only dream of seeing herself. Her chest warmed, and a wistful sighed compressed her chest. “He rarely carries more than the necessities. It seems to me that, if he did have something of opulence, he would sell it and give it the excess to someone who needed it. That’s the sort of thing Solas would do.”

This Fade version of Solas regarded her with wonderment. The vision reflected her thoughts, and in the space of a breath, his garments had shifted to a simple khaki tunic, tied with a worn sash, and snug olive breeches she recognized so well. The jawbone hung from his neck, swaying gently on the leather cords above her nose. Yes, this was how she saw Solas. It was nice to see him in such finery. Maker knows she was not going to complain when she woke up and had to attend the ball. But this had been the state of the man she loved. Nothing more, nothing less. Her vision blurred with a sudden onset of tears, her eyes betraying her affection. A tightness in her throat forced her to swallow, and a serrated breath slipped from her lungs. This was Solas. This was the man she loved.

Well, this really was no time to be dawdling with selfish visions. There was a ball to attend, Courtiers to impress, and an assassination to stop. She closed her eyes to blink away the moisture, and when she opened them, her vision was gone.

 

*   *   *

 

A gentle rocking roused her from sleep, and a tempting voice whispered smoothly in her ear. “We’re here.” The skin around her ear prickled as the warmth of breath lit a trail of goosebumps down her spine. Her eyes fluttered open and she yawned, stretching the sleep out of her legs. It took a moment to orient herself, but soon she realized she was in the carriage. Yes, the carriage on its way to Halamshiral. She was alone, except…

_Solas!_

The thought sent a heat from her gut rising to face. This was no vision. This was her actual, living, breathing _hah’ren_. She sat up quickly, fumbling for her mask to cover the blush she so keenly felt.  
  
He remained reclined and as composed as ever. “Did you sleep well?”

She looked to her hands in her lap. “Yes,” she squeaked, her voice refusing to work. She cleared her throat and offered another, “Yes, I did, thank you.”

“I trust the rest of the evening will go as smoothly.”

“I could only be so fortunate.”

The door to the coach suddenly opened, manned by a uniformed attendant of their company. She rose, careful to mind her head and the height of her plaited hair. But as she passed him to exit, his hand reached out, cupping her face. She froze, her body too stunned to move. His thumb reached out and gently caressed her lower lip, and she fought down a trembling in her knees.

“It is obvious you slept well,” he grinned, thumbing at the corner of her mouth. “You will want to freshen up before you present before the Queen.”

Her hand flew to the corner of her lip and met a thick, cold wetness. She wanted to die. She had slept so soundly, she had actually drooled. Of all the things that could have happened, this had to happen _right then_. How wrong she was to have listened to Dorian! It would have been better to suffer the entire evening riddled with back pain then have to endure _this_. She would never live this down. Unable to respond intelligently, she rushed from the carriage, scooping the gown over her shoes to speed her flight.  

 

 

The next several minutes were punctuated by the bustling of maidservants. Pinning here, lacing there, dabbing, tucking, smoothing. Under the preening, mothering eyes of Josephine, and the strict scrutiny of Vivienne, they prepped her to perfection. Fine powders drifted in the air in the large tent, caking in her airways. The heady perfumes made her eyes water, and a handmaiden was there with a cotton rag to damp away the moisture.

“Now, remember, darling. You are not here to impress them.” Vivienne reminded.

“I’m not?”

“No, dear. You are here to crush them with your superiority. They will submit to your perfection.”

She swallowed. “I see.”

The Enchanter circled her, a predator gazing at her sharply down the length of her perfect nose. “You must be flawless,” she punctuated each word with precision. “But you are capable. I, after all, have taught you well. Simply remember what I told you, and no one will be the wiser.”

“Come on. We shouldn’t keep the rest waiting. They will be announcing us soon,” Josephine encouraged, swatting away the eager hands of the servants to adjust Lissa’s curls.

Lissa inhaled, allowing the full expanse of her lungs to fill, tight, tighter, until the corset allowed no more. Her nerve bottled up tightly, she rose from the chair, taking a moment to inspect their hard work.

The full length mirror must have been reflecting some other women. The reflection before could not have been her. A hand dared to reach up to her face, and she gasped. She was beautiful.

Hair perfectly coifed with just the right amount of curls to trickle down her neck and dust her shoulders. Eyes dark and tempting behind her intricate mask. Even she wanted to get to know the woman who belonged to those darkly-rimmed orbs. A fine dusting of powder surely made from crushed diamonds made her skin shimmered with pale starlight. Her lips stained with rogue looked plump, full, and alluring. Heavy jewelry adorned the fair column of her neck, and the diamonds flashed like lightning.

 

“You can do it,” Josephine beamed, drawing her away from the mirror towards the tent flap.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen breathed. His mouth hung agape, and for a moment he stared at her dumbly. “You are the vision of a temptress – I mean tempest,” he fumbled, muttering curses to himself. “Oh, Andraste…”

Lissa held back a giggle. She curtsied as much as the dragonbone would allow, bending gracefully at the knees with practiced form. “Thank you, Cullen. I am hoping it will make the right impression on the court.”  
  
“Well, I am confident you will certainly impress them.”  
  
“Down boy,” Dorian teased, eliciting a sudden flush over the Commander’s visage.  
  
“Inquisitor,” Solas said as he came up next to her. “I see they have great attention to detail,” he teased, his eyes resting on the corner of her lip.

“Yes, well!” she chuckled nervously, her hands smoothing the front of the silk bodice. “It seems we can afford very skilled people.” She was glad for their help, but she felt a bit unsettled by the fact that it took an entire entourage to ensure she was as prim as the Court. 

Voices of the nobility squawked and tittered as the numbers of lords and ladies increased in the main gardens just ahead. Their voices started to drown out the delicate chirping of crickets and the gurgling fountains.

“Cullen wasn’t wrong about you, you know,” Solas said with a smirk.  
  
She let out a ragged breath, a nervous grin tugging on her cheeks. “About being a temptress or a tempest?”  
  
“You pull off both impressively. I have no doubt not a man in Orlais will be able to keep their eyes off you.”  
  
This was night was only becoming more and more perfect. Discretely going through her mental exercises, she paused to ensure she was not actually in the Fade, dreaming. No, it was real. She really had spent time asleep nestled against by his own invitation, and he really had just referred to her as a temptress. Perhaps it was the daring cut of the dress, the unforgettable pressure of the corset on her diaphragm, or the rousing way the cool air felt on her leg as it was exposed in the high slit with each step, but she felt _daring_. Brazen.

 _Sensual_.

“And what of Elves?” she asked in a near whisper, keeping her eyes locked forward. She was shocked at her bold reply, but the feeling of being so open and brazen was exhilarating.  
  
Solas appeared not to have heard, replying with a cool, “Hmm?” and the arch of a brow. “I will keep an eye out for anything useful; though I cannot say how much I will glean. I can already tell not even the servants know what to think of me.”  
  
“So very few do, Solas.”  
  
She exhaled the tightness out of her lungs, and was equally thankful and sad he had not heard her remark. She wanted – needed – to know what he was thinking, what he thought about her. This was no time to be focusing on her silly infatuation. The sound of the bell tolling told her it was time.

She had work to do.

The two stepped into promenade, joining with their entourage. Lissa paused behind the large, ornate door to the grand ballroom, waiting for their names to be announced. The attendants in waiting stood wordlessly, and only the faintest hum of music could be heard from the other side.  
  
Lissa stepped to the front of their band, her heels clacking loudly against the tiled floors as she mentally noted each member they had brought to represent the Inquisition: Cassandra, her head for battle and raw, female strength; Varric with his wit and cheek; Cullen, for his military prowess and head for command (though his looks wouldn’t hurt their cause, either). Dorian and Vivienne had been shoo-ins, both at ease in these deadly, sophisticated soirees and both looked equally smashing and intimidating while doing it. Josephine and Leliana were formidable at these social events, and both skilled at the Game in different ways. Against Vivienne’s advice, she had asked Cole to attend, so long as he stayed out of the way. She found his insight incredibly valuable, if not at times a bit mystical. And of course, Solas had been asked to attend. To her surprise, he had accepted readily, almost eager to be at the ball. It was important to her for those in Orlais and especially the people of the Court to see that a valued, trusted member of the Inquisition’s members was an Elf, and an Apostate at that. If that would not set their wigged heads spinning, she did not know what would. And of course, she had desperately wanted to see him dress in something regal and formal, not something of mere practicality. A selfish motive for inviting him she knew, but if she could have both, why not?  
  
The attendants finally moved, opening the door in practiced sync.  
  
“Remember what I showed you,” Vivienne whispered in a purr. Lissa nodded, and her rouged lips curled with the slightest smirk.  
  
“I’ll knock them dead.”  
  
“Naturally, my dear.”  
  
“Presenting Lady Lissa Marabeth Hesperides Trevelyan of Ferelden, Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste.”  
  
_Oh, Maker, they used my full name?_

From the corner of her eye, she could see Varric’s brows raised in a silent tease. She would have to deal with that oversight later. Chin high and back straight, she allowed her chest to do the leading and her hips to follow through, gliding seductively with each step. _Mind the steps. Oh no, I think my mask is crooked. I wonder if I pass out, what would happen? Remember what Vivienne said: Head higher than their pride, gaze sharper than their words, and think murder._

The weighty gaze of the Court fell on her, lords and ladies exchanging whispers at her expense. Their eyes followed a burning trail on her back, and despite the threatening wobble in her knees, she managed a graceful courtesy before Her Majesty before her graceful final turn to the side. With care, head erect, ears lined up with her shoulders, she continued her walk next to Josephine, who stood tittering with a masked woman.

“You did lovely,” she whispered.

Lissa sighed. “That was just the entrance,” she replied in hushed tones. “Now we have an heir to appoint.”

 

*   *   *

 

It had taken every ounce of her cleverness, every word of advice from her comrades, but thankfully Celene’s cousin, Florianne, had been outed in front of the entire Court. Now, with that grand success behind her, she stole away to an empty balcony, relishing the silence and solitude. Boots clacked along the tiled floor behind her. And, as had been the theme for the evening, she held back her tongue and a weary sigh, and stood, prepared to bow to her guest.

“Good eve-“

“Oh, Lissa, you don’t—“ Cullen cleared his throat, giving a half bow in return to her interrupted curtsy.

“Cullen! I’m sorry, I didn’t expect.”

“No, I gathered.” He grinned warmly, and for a moment it seemed as if he had left the weight of command behind. “Might I join you for a moment?”

With a grin, she inclined her head. “Of course. How are you holding up? You seemed to have garnered quite the attention.”

He leaned against the balcony, looking out over the empty patch of garden. “Yes, so I did,” he managed through gritted teeth. “But I did not attract quite as many admirers as you did.”

She laughed. “Well, half of said ‘admirers’ were actually trying to kill me, so I don’t think they count.”

He shifted then, changing his weight from foot to foot as he often did at the war table when he was overthinking something. “Lissa, I-“ he swallowed, raising his gaze to meet her eyes, and extended his gloved hand. “I very much enjoy our time together, and, if you would oblige, I’d be honored by the chance to hold you again, in a dance.”

Wide eyes met his question. _Did … did what he say actually happen?_ It was an odd, uncomfortable position to be in. No man that she actually respected or admired had ever so politely asked for her company. And Cullen was a _good_ man, she knew that. Why did she have to somehow be the target of his worthy affections? What was she supposed to do with that? How did she tell him?

He cleared his throat, withdrawing his hand quietly. “I … meant no disrespect. I only very much enjoyed our time together at the wedding and –“

“Cullen,” she interjected, true regret twisting her features, “it’s not that. I – I’m flattered, really. Mostly shocked,” she admitted with some hesitation, but her inexperience in such matters made uncomfortable honesty her default. “I had no idea … I – It’s just that … I admire you a great deal, but what portion of my heart is open would be unfair to offer you.” She admitted, dipping her chin to her chest.

His mouth parted in understanding. “I apologize. I – I had not realized there was someone else. I-“

She raised a hand, shaking her head with a curt sigh. “No, it’s all right. Neither does he.”

His blonde head slowly nodded. “Well, then … I wish you the best, as I always have.” He offered softly. The sincerity tugged at her, twisting her chest.

“Thank you, Cullen. I appreciate that. Thank you … for understanding.”

He grinned, crossing his arms. “I am not unfamiliar with pining after an oblivious party.” The way his eyes met hers cut a sharp realization into her gut. Had he been sending her signals she was too oblivious to notice? “Enjoy your rest, Lissa. You have more than earned it.” With a parting bow, he retreated, and the sound of his footfall echoed down the hall.

Her chest rose and fell as her pulse slowed to a normal pace. Oh, Maker, what an evening this had been. The balcony had offered no real rest, and right now, the comforting presence of her friends seemed like the best retreat. Her mind now set on returning the Hall, she stood, and turned, gasping at the sight of a figure standing silently in the doorway.

“Solas, I swear to the Maker…” She clutched her bobbing chest, forcing down the embarrassed blush.

He chuckled. “I apologize. I shall deliberately make my approach more obnoxious. Perhaps if I had been fitted with heeled boots instead of bare feet?”

Heeled boots? How long had he been nearby? Did he know about Cullen, or …?  
  
He bent slightly at the waist in a small a bow, and outstretched a slender hand. His gaze, steady and intense, never left her eyes. “Walk with me.” His voice was soft, but insistent, punctuated with a rare passion. The invitation, phrased like a demand, was something she could not, would not refuse. A knot formed in her belly, and her face felt hot with a sudden flush. For perhaps the first time tonight, she was grateful for the mask.  
  
Calling on her trained decorum, she accepted his hand with a demure nod of her head as she dipped low in a curtsy, desperately hoping she did not appear as eager as she felt. He seemed to see something through her feigned composure for the slightest smirk curled victoriously at the corner of his beautiful lips. His hand, cool and slender, wrapped around hers as he drew her towards him, scooping her to his side. He led her arm in arm through the long, high halls full of gossiping nobles, and she whispered a silent prayer in thanks for her working legs. They suddenly felt so _weak_. They passed through the packed hallway, an unlikely, unpermitted pair cutting through a river of gemstones and feathers. No doubt they would have something to say about this Elf Apostate and the Human Inquisitor walking arm in arm, judging by the way their eyes bulged from behind their masks.  
  
_Let them wag their tongues_ , she thought as she lifted her chin higher, straightening her spine. A proud, almost cocky smile thinned her rouge painted lips. To her surprise, he reached across to place his free hand on top of hers. Her stomach fluttered at his touch.  
  
“I hope you do not find me too forward for saying how spectacularly you handled the events of the evening.”  
  
“I do not,” she said, keeping her eyes ever forward as they passed between the nobles, keeping in mind every piece of advice from Vivienne. _Head high, breasts out, hips move with a purpose and think murder._ “And I would not be offended should you repeat it.”  
  
He chuckled. “You really did handle everything with extraordinary grace and cunning, not something one often finds in combination with kindness such as yours.”

She turned to him, her nose wrinkling behind her mask. “Did I hear you correctly, or did you just insinuate that I was graceful?”

“I am not insinuating it; I am _declaring_ it. It was not a subject for debate.”  
  
Oh, what his words, his _voice_ , did to her! Did he know of the tortuous shock of his voice as it crawled along her skin? Did he understand the terrible ache his words created between her thighs? Oh, she had tasted him before. It was a sweet but terrible memory her mind replayed over and over again. Each word he spoke, each vowel and consonant that graced those full lips was a painful, wonderful reminder. But _that_ Solas had cared for her. Time was a funny thing, and her courage was fragile, her heart and mind too spent to survive his rejection. Perhaps it was better to die slowly at his words, to endure to the tortuous ache of her body instead of break.

He led her through a dark hall where only a few slaves loitered in the dark corners. Their footsteps echoed up the vaulted ceilings, and the lanterns on the wall cast their silhouettes in long, slender shadows on the stained tiled floor. Her mind raced with fantastic possibilities at where they could be headed. For Solas to ask her here, there could be something tantalizingly interesting, or it could be that he simply wanted to walk and there was no destination in sight. She had the hardest time telling with him, but that was part of the excitement.  
  
"I didn't expect you to enjoy yourself so much," she broke the silence, her voice louder in this dim corridor than she expected. "I half expected you to shake your head at their 'petty antics and boring affairs,'" she mimicked his tone, chuckling.  
  
“Well, you couldn’t be more wrong. I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and _sex_ that permeates these events,” he nearly growled, a sound that instantly weakened her knees.

He had to know what he was doing to her, he _had_ to. His voice was unashamed, and rather he flaunted it, as if testing her for a reaction. He never acted without a purpose, and she wondered what purpose he had for torturing her so.  
  
She would not be bested. If this was a test from her teacher, she would prove that she could learn. She honeyed her voice, the words daring as they poured over rouged lips with velvet tones. “Perhaps there is a side to you I’ve yet to see.”  
  
He stopped, turning to face her with dark eyes, heavy lidded and intense. “There is much about me you have yet to see.”  
  
Her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth now suddenly parched. Her stomach clenched as his gaze held hers fast, setting her soul to burning. She allowed herself a pause, squeezing her thighs together as she bit back a whimper.  Oh, how his blue-grey eyes, now rimmed with dark, pierced her. Could he see the want, the need, behind her mask? Feel the heat roiling in her core? She knew she should not succumb to this; it was dangerous, unlikely. But it felt good to allow herself to indulge in her private fantasy, and if not in Orlais, where else would she allow herself to succumb to such hedonistic pleasures?  
  
“Then what shall be done about it? Will I have to have you drawn and quartered to see the rest, or would a discussion over tea do?”  
  
He grinned crookedly. “Oh, I do not think something as drastic and dreadful as tea will be required,” he replied and resumed leading her through the unoccupied halls of the palace. He pushed open an elaborately etched glass door and stepped out on a private veranda overlooking the rugged landscape and glittery night sky. The clear night air carried the sound of the orchestra and the tittering laughter of the noble guests. A cricket’s chirp managed to keep the time and help guide her racing pulse to a calmer state. She took a seat one of the cool stone benches, thankful for how they drew the heat from her bones, as Solas leaned against the edge of the carved railings, looking out over the stillness. The quiet between them was soothing and comfortable, not at all uneasy. Softly, he spoke, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. “Would you really care to see more of me?”  
  
She studied him a moment, her head titling as she pondered his question and, more importantly, his motives for asking it. “Why would I not?” she asked with a light chuckle. She rubbed her arm to stave off the chill of the night air. “You seem to know so much of me, it hardly seems fair.”  
  
“Do I know so much of you?” He asked aloud, though it seemed a question meant for himself and not her. “Everything I have seen … it is beyond reason to think it should be so. How am I to know that this mark has not changed you, altered you in some way?”  
  
Her eyes narrowed as they searched him. “Solas…” she pleaded softly, but he pressed on.  
  
“Everything about your kind tells me that it shouldn’t be. That _you_ shouldn’t be.” His voice became impassioned, and he pushed away from the railing. One hand raised to cradle his head, his thoughts heavy as he paced around the small balcony. “Everything I have seen, have learned…you defy each definition, break all the bonds of prejudice.” He turned to her, eyes baring his soul in the most vulnerable she had ever seen him. “I _want_ everything you are to be _you_.” He was insistent, pleading. Not able to bare the weakness in his eyes any longer, she rose and rushed to him, reaching out for his hands. She clasped her hands around his, and met his eyes with care.  
  
“I have not tried to be anything else but who I am. I wouldn’t let this mark change me. I’ve simply tried to do the right thing.” He was distressed, and it tugged in her chest painfully to see him so, more than she anticipated. She pressed a squeeze into his palms. “If I have done something to bother you…”  
  
“Bother me?” He pulled away from her hands, shaking his head and chuckling darkly. “Yes, you do _bother_ me. Everything about you _bothers_ me.”  
  
She was left standing there, confused, with empty hands outstretched in front of her, frozen in shock. His words hurt more than they should have. They twisted like a knife buried in her chest. He turned from her, and wave of cold washed over her as she stared at his back. His hands gripped the rail till his knuckles whitened. Her breath turned to a hard lump in her chest, but she managed a pathetic reply.  
  
“I’m sorry.” She offered once, and rushed away from the balcony as fast as her heels could carry her.

 

She wanted nothing to do with Orlais. She was darkly thankful he had the thoughtfulness to drag her through the empty portions of the palace before crushing her with that news. At least here only the servants would see her cry.  
  
Ducking into nearby room, she leaned back against the heavy double doors until they shut with a groan. Pathetic sobs clutched her throat, and she slid down the wooden door slowly, weakly, until she landed on the floor in a heap of gossamer and lace, dust puffing out in a cloud around her. With a sob, she cast the delicate mask in a corner, letting the tears flow freely down her full cheeks. This was not the same Solas who had confessed his secret love for her in a desperate clutch to make his peace before he died. No, time had treated her very differently. She should have known. She was so _stupid_ for allowing herself to feel so deeply. When her rationale caught up to her emotions, she wiped the tears away with the back of her hand, no doubt dragging a smudge of black from around her eyes. As she caught her breath, still burning and dry in her lungs, she tried to steady her frantic thoughts. Her eyes danced around her makeshift shelter.

The velvet drapery, torn raggedly through the middle, let in a jagged slice of silver moonlight. It cut through the dark like a beam, illuminating the thick carpet of dust layered on everything. A large bed with far too many ruffles lay long unused in the center. A thick wooden side tabled was overturned, the drawer removed and cast aside carelessly in the corner. Flowers long dead lay in a pile of broken porcelain. The shards glinted in the light as the moonbeams bounced off the inlayed gold designs. It was beautiful, even broken as it was. Perhaps even more now, Lissa mused, wondering what events had caused this destruction. Had it been a murder in the shadows, a political power play that now was long forgotten? Had it been a lovers spat? A disgruntled servant? Slowly pushing off the ground, she untangled herself from the voluminous folds of her gown and neared the broken vase, kicking up billowing plumes of dust behind her.  
  
Carefully, she reached out picking up one of the shards and holding it up in the moonlight.  
  
“It’s beautiful,” a voice behind her commented, giving her a start. She dropped the piece of broken vase, hissing as it sliced a thin cut in the end of her finger. She did not turn, knowing to whom the voice belonged.  
  
_Solas._  
  
She wanted to say something cutting, backhanded. But she had not the sharp tongue of Dorian, or his devil-my-care attitude. Instead, she turned towards the window, and sucked the blood from the end of her fingertip, ignoring him.  
  
“You left in such a hurry.”  
  
Was there apology in his tone? She felt her lip curl, her face twisted in a grimace. “Well, I should hate to miss the last dance. I did, after all, only get to dance once with the villain of the evening.” Her voice was sharp, and saturated with sarcasm, too much hurt to cover it up with the mask of decorum.  
  
He crossed the room and reached out, asking for her hand with his open palm. Her eyes met his, hard and challenging, but she extended her injured hand, her jaw clenched in rebellion, in an unspoken challenge. He pressed her palm between his two hands, and whispered a spell. She hated that it was so beautiful and poetic and how perfectly it showcased the timbre of his voice, how the rhythm of the words matched the frantic beat of her heart from his touch. His hands glowed with a cool, blue light, casting his jawline in sharp relief. The light slowly died, the spell having ended, but he did not release her. She tested his grip, tugging against him slightly, and the press increased. Her jaw clenched, and her chest rose once in a deep breath as she gathered her nerve, and she yanked her hand out from between his.  
  
“Thank you,” she said brusquely as she bent for her mask. “I shall take my leave, so that I won’t _bother_ you further.”  
  
His hand caught her wrist, tightly enough that she dropped the mask. His gaze was stern, feral, and it frightened her.  
  
“You _do_ bother me.” His voice was rough with passion, and he advanced toward her in a predatory manner. She took a step back, then two, until she stumbled into the plastered wall. “It bothers me that in every sunset, each song of the nightingale, each twinkle of starlight, I see reflected a small piece of your beauty.”

_What?_

Her chest fell as she let go of the tight breath she had been holding. Her mind raced with his words, replaying them over again and again. He brought up a hand to cradle her face, and she flinched. His eyes, the storm swirling in them, revealed a vulnerability she had not yet seen. _Is he injured at my hesitation?_ His slender fingers tenderly cupped her face, his fingers rough from wielding his staff. Slowly she melted into his touch, hesitantly softening into his palm. His eyes traced her every feature, followed the line of tears down her face, and suddenly she felt naked, vulnerable, under his gaze. 

When he spoke, it was soft but intent. “It bothers me when I lie on my bedroll at night, I fall asleep thinking of you instead of the Fade.” Her eyes were fixated on his lips, how they rolled over each word with such precision. “It bothers me that I should care to search out the mysteries of a single, human woman when I have thousands of years to intrigue me. It bothers me that, despite knowing better, I would be here, telling you this.”  
  
His hand was cool against her hot cheeks, and his fingers began to slide up into her curled hair, his thumb wiping at the smudged trail of black left by her tears. The look on his face…Maker, she could not take it. The vulnerable need, the want, was so plain, it gripped her chest till she could barely breathe. She nearly succumbed, her eyelids fluttering weakly, one hand splayed on his chest for support.

His eyes drank her in, and her heart pounded against her chest, threatening to escape. She felt the heat of his gaze burning across the silhouette of her cheekbones, down the column of her neck, and over the rise of her breasts. She was hot and wet and _wanting_. The feelings he awakened within her, new, exciting, dangerous. It was no surprise to her now why intimacy was denied in the Circles, and why some would risk death for it. Now, having known it just a small piece of it, she wondered what she would do if she lost it, what she would not do to get it back. His lips curled into a predatory snarl, and a desirous shadow darkened his gaze. He would devour her, and she would be willing prey. Tightening his grip, he pressed her towards him until the folds of her gown curled around both of their legs, until her bodice pulled with the force of their press.

Her hands gripped the golden velvet of his doublet, nervously wringing it in tiny mounds. The way he looked at her, at all of her, sent shivers down her spine. A heat began to simmer low in her belly, building up a pressure behind her low back. She swallowed the lump in her throat, and surrendered as he slowly, slowly tilted her head backward, angling her lips towards his, letting thick curls unwind down her bare back.  
  
He bent near until she could feel his breath against her lips. It was hot and wet and heavy. Oh, how she longed to taste him again. Her mouth opened, and she marveled at the control he had over her body. It did such silly things, wonderfully terribly things, without her permission. She was not in control. And she loved it.

His smooth lips grazed her ear, and he pressed a chaste kiss to the tip. “ _Ara vhen'an…”*_ _Slowly, tortuously, he dragged his lips across her cheek, slowly, slowly nearing her waiting lips. Her knees buckled, and a soft moan slipped out of her. He paused, hesitating, hovering over her hungry mouth._  
  
He hesitated _. Why?_ _The flutter of her heart turned to nervous beating as she felt his grip around her waist lessen. His jaw clenched, and he began to turn away, his brows furrowed with thought, his eyes dark as if he had already lost her._ _No, no please…Maker, I can’t…_  
  
She had an instant to decide. She closed the gap, pressing her lips against his in a swift move.  
  
She felt a growl form in his throat, and slowly he turned back to her, hands gliding over her waist until his arms encircled her. His lips slowly parted and then curved in a deadly smile.  
  
“You will regret that,” he threatened against her lips.   
  
His lips – oh, how soft they were as they pressed against hers – glided without hurry, without demand, as if in this one, perfect, fragile moment, time was lost. One hand roved her waist, sliding up just under her bust, and the other slipped long fingers into her hair, scratching his nails gently into her scalp. Her sigh was lost in his mouth as he swallowed it with a low rumble in his chest. Their tongues tangled together, hot and slick, in an undulating rhythm. Faster and faster they roved, the pace increasing with the tempo of her heart.

She had always wondered what this was like. What real lovemaking was meant to be, not that hurried, selfish act she had been subjected to in her youth. Secretly, she had wondered if she was worth such treatment, if her body would even know what to do if it found her. He must have sensed her darker thoughts. He paused, holding her close, pulling back just enough to measure her face with kind eyes. His thumb traced the line of her jaw.

 _“Ahn, ma’ vhenan?”*_ he questioned softly, pressing a comforting kiss at the corner of her mouth.

Should she disclose her insecurities? Would he think less of her, having been tossed aside and used as she was? Would he fault her for her inexperience? Perhaps the old her would have listened to these self-preserving cautions.

She hesitated. “I … I’m not certain. I’ve … never done this before.”

Surprisingly, he chuckled in his throat, bending down to press a kiss to her temple. His breath ghosted over her ear, hot and humid. “Shall I give you another lesson, _da’len_?”

Her breath caught in her chest, her breasts heaving against the dragonbone corset. Oh, how tight it felt against her! Her hardened nipples scraped against the restraint painfully, yearning to be free.

When words came, they faltered, her breath insufficient to support them. “I … perhaps … It’s just that … I’ve never… not like this…”

He murmured against her cheek, the pace of his hands slowing, firming to a reassuring stroke. “I will be gentle.”

She swallowed, words too scrambled in her mind to speak, and managed a nod of permission.

 “You are … so beautiful,” he whispered, coasting his palms down the column of her neck, over her shoulders, slowly trailing down the length of her pale arms until he caught her hands. He twined his fingers between hers, even with the heat of the moment, it was tender, gentle.

A breath shuddered from her chest as he dusted her knuckles with kisses. The heat in her chest changed somehow. It was now something … _impossible_ to describe. She felt so wonderful, so absolutely perfect, she would live and die a thousand times in this moment. All of the lies she had accepted were shattered by the truth on his lips, in his eyes, in his touch. She was wanted. Needed. Cherished.

_Loved._

Tears rolled over her cheeks, her lips trembled. He pulled his lips from her knuckles to still the tremor of her lips with his. “What is it, _da’len_?” He asked, brushing his lips over hers.

She laughed, feeling more free and light and clear than she had – _ever_. He titled his head, his lips curved in amused grin. “I just feel so … _wonderful_.” With a sigh, she laid her head against the firmness of his chest. She took in a long, deep breath, drinking in the scent of him.

A dark chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Wonderful? I have not even started.”

He released her hands, and moved to meet at her breasts, thumbs rubbing circles over where her nipples strained against the nubby fabric. The vibrating pleasure coursed through her, and she could not fight back a whimper of pleasure. Slowly, careful of her reactions, he slipped his knee through the layers of gossamer and between her thighs, hoisting her up against the wall. She shifted to get a better perch, to feel the muscle beneath the tight, black breeches against her throbbing core. 

One hand slipped to her calf, sliding up her leg and gathering up the folds of gossamer. A shock of cold air reminded her what she was doing, and she gasped. He paused at her knee, his eyes measuring her.

“ _Eman nar dhru_?*”

She sucked down a ragged inhale and nodded. “ _Emas emma dhru, Solas*_.”

She had not misplaced her faith. His left hand continued its climb up her leg, sliding along the outside of her thigh to cup her full hip. He _toyed_ with her. His teeth nipped at her lower lip until she hissed in pain. Suddenly, he drew in her bottom lip, suckling the away the sting. Her entire body vibrated with _ache_. His right hand trailed hot lines down the exposed skin of her back, and his lips began a slow, tortuous trail from her mouth. Voraciously, he trailed down her chin, her neck, until he finally settled on the soft spot just above her collarbone.  
  
“ _Solas_ ,” she moaned, surprised she had enough breath to speak. He must have enjoyed the way she breathed his name; his eyes half shut in pleasure at the sound. She bared her arched neck to him, bowing her body against him involuntarily. She could feel it, the edge of her sanity, and she felt herself teetering closer to toppling over the edge with each kiss he placed against her tingling skin. He indulged in offering, peppering her with kisses, dragging the rough, slick tip of his tongue along the teasing hem of her bodice. Oh, if she could just lean back a bit further, breathe a little deeper, she might …

She bent backward, head falling back in pleasure, and with one deep breath, her tight, aching breasts were free of their prison. He growled in response, drawing the tip of her breasts between his full lips. “Oh – _oh!_ ” He pulled her towards him until the cradle of her pelvis crushed against the bulge of his need. She gasped, hips bucking to get better purchase against his body and felt him grin against the soft skin of her chest.  

“What should your first lesson be, _da’len?_ ” He pressed a hot kiss along the dip between her breasts. The heat in her belly began to unspool rapidly, the pressure expanding in her lower back till it hurt. One hand cupped her breast, thumbing over her hardened nipple, the other moved slowly, _slowly_ , towards her inner thigh. Her skin broke out in gooseflesh, trails of electricity tingling wherever he touched. With a nip, his teeth tugged at her breasts while the hand on her thigh passed over the thin barrier of her small clothes. She needed to feel him there, her body desperate for solid proof that this was real and not some gossamer dream. Her hips bucked and hitched, begging for more attention. He obliged.

With a firm stroke, the length of his finger slid up the center of her damp undergarment, sending a shuddering thrill across her core. She fought to hold back the primal groan she felt building in her throat and instead let escape an unstable whimper. The hand on her back tightened at the sound, drawing her pelvis against the cradle of his hips, crushing the hand between her thighs. Her legs trembled, a shock of unsteady tremors racking her muscles as pleasure and want pumped through her veins. Her nails bit into his back, and he growled in his throat.   

He pulled away from suckling her breast to gaze on her face. She looked on him, saw the fire and want in his eyes, the way his lips were slick and slightly swollen from so much kissing. There was something beautiful about the closeness of them, about how their bodies fought and pressed to find a nearness that their souls shared as they tried in vain to join them. He brought his hand to her face and rubbed her jaw with the pad of his thumb. His eyes fastened to hers, and his hands stopped their tempting crawl, content to simply hold her. He leaned forward, pressing his gleaming eyes shut, and rubbed his lips across hers as he whispered,

“ _Ar lath ma, vhenan …_ ”

 

This was no flippant remark born of heightened passion. There was no haste to his words; there never was. He had taken the time to choose his words, his language. He had used Elvhen, not Common, for his confession. His tone, even and firm but on the edge of breaking, told of his sincerity, and it was his eyes, wet and gleaming with points of light, that told her the truth.

He loved her.

Her soul shattered into a million brilliant points of light that thrummed with incandescent joy. She would return in like kind, and not just any answer would do. She would use _her_ words, _her_ tongue, to speak the feelings that fluttered in her chest, that vibrated out of her very soul. Her hand reached up to cup the side of his face, her hand resting at the point of his jaw, her fingers stretching out over the length of his elongated ear. She nuzzled her face against his, and their brows met, her words a raw whisper between them.

“I love you, Solas.”

The want in her chest turned to need. The promise of their lips _needed_ to be met with their flesh, and there were far too many clothes in the way. He must have felt it, too, for his hands took up their former work without encouragement. Her fingers, shaking with anticipation, worked at the buckle around his waist, dropping the leather belt to the floor with a thud. The sash came next, but it was difficult to work out the intricate wrap, what with his hand starting a tempting outline of her smallclothes.

Her useless, trembling fingers fumbled at the closures of his tunic, each playful stroke of his sending wracks of pleasure sizzling across her skin. But once she succeeded, she was rewarded with the magnificent view of the full expanse of his chest and torso. A slip of a sigh ghosted over her lips. He was a beautiful soul, and his body was a glorious match. His marble skin stretched out over firm, lean muscle like water rushing over smooth, worn stones. Tunic in a forgotten heap, she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her burning, bare chest against his. His skin was cool and unyielding beneath her. The feel of his skin against hers was like a drug. She needed _more_.

He hummed against the soft spot above her collarbone. “Are you in a hurry, _vhenan?_ ”

“No.” He teased with a darting slip of his finger, brushing against the patch of hair beneath her smallclothes. She quivered, her insides going _tight-tight-tight_ at his touch. “ _Yes_ ,” she shuddered.

A chuckle vibrated against her throat, and she felt his lips thin in a smile. He nipped at her shoulder, kissing a trail along the edge of her neck. “Why should you rush?” His mouth drew in the soft skin behind her jaw between his lips in a slow, tortuous rhythm. His tongue swirled slow circles over the skin as he suckled, drawing away with a slight pop. Moist, full lips grazed her ears. “I do not plan to.”

She turned towards him, catching the sly look on his face. The slight nuance in his eyes, the subtle narrowing of his gaze…even now, he was calculating, predicting. _Playing me_ , she thought with a sudden, wonderful helplessness.

Both hands stopped their teasing games to slip behind her, sliding down to the small of her back. H _e trailed little circles around the dimples on her lower back before plunging beneath the edge of the risqué drop of the dress and cupped the soft, curved flesh of her rear in his hands. She gasped against his chest, and her arms clutched to his back desperately. With a quick shift, he hoisted her against him, looping one leg around his lower back. He grinned, and his eyes flashed with hunger._ “ _Isalan dera na aron tuelan…*”_ _Even though she did not understand exactly what he meant, the lustful tone was enough to set her insides to quivering, and she made no protest as he ushered her to the nearby bed._  


_*   *   *_  
  
  
“Where is the Inquisitor?” Cassandra barked quietly, shuffling around the same tile she had been standing on nearly the entire evening.  
  
“Oh, please, Seeker, you do worry too much. This is a party. You know? Dancing, eating, killing?” Dorian asked as he casually reached out for a fresh glass of wine from the tray of a passing servant.  
  
“That’s exactly why I am concerned,” she replied through gritted teeth, no less tired of his attitude than she had been when she first arrived.  
  
“It’s all fairly normal to lose yourself in the heady intake of pompousness and obscene amounts of wine. You really should try it sometime.”   
  
Leliana stepped through the main corridor serene and unflappable as ever. Cassandra called her out immediately. “Leliana, it is nearly three in the morning! Have you no word of the Inquisitor?”  
  
The Spymaster grinned slightly. “Oh, I would not worry, Cassandra. When last I saw her, she was enjoying herself, as you should be. We have wrought a great victory here tonight. I think a little celebrating is in order.”  
  
Cassandra grumbled, crossing her arms across the stiff, militaristic uniform. But the Seeker was grateful; when Josephine presented the advisors with the proposals for regal attire, Lissa had graciously excused Cassandra from wearing any sort of garish gown Josephine had planned.

“I will celebrate when the rift is closed.”  
  
“Oh good! I’ll be certain to head straight to Tevinter after our success. Heaven knows what sort of earth-shattering soiree you would throw, Cassandra.”  
  
Maker, she was going to choke him.  
  
  
*  *  *

He should feel guilty, he knew. There was no possible way to maintain this relationship. For the better part of an hour he laid there, staring at the old, vaulted ceiling, berating himself as she slept. Whatever happened after the Rift sealed, Lissa would have no part to play in his role. His eyes roamed her soft curves, and for a moment, he felt as if he had already lost her.  
  
_Perhaps…no_ , he reasoned with himself, steeling his nerve. There was no way to take her with him. Not for her own safety. Even if she had shown a promise in magic he had not seen, even if she could already harness the power of his own foci … he could train her. He could teach her how to navigate the Fade, he could teach her how to stay safe.  
  
_And put everything else you’ve worked for, for thousands of years, at risk for one human woman you’ve known for little more than a year?_  
  
He reached out, entwining his fingers in her soft hair, draped over her form like silken strands. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered with gut-wrenching conviction.

For a moment, the turbulence of his mind stilled. Just for a moment, with her sleeping peacefully against him, he could feel nothing but peace. For so long, Spirits had been his only companions and friends, and yet, with this wonderful human woman he had found an equal soul, a friend, and lover. “Oh, _Vhenan_ , in another world…”

In another world, where time was immeasurable and of infinite supply, he would have taken a year to memorize her name, to play it out his lips. Introductions would be longer than that, sparing furtive glances across wide, sparkling halls, stealing looks around bookcases. He would have researched her, dedicated years to knowing her, to watching her change and learn, watch her _be_. And then, when he knew what he knew now, he would have started a beautiful courtship, taking his time, letting her _revel_ in the feelings he would bestow. Letting her bask in his year-long worship. There would be no hurry, no sense of time’s hound on their heels. He would have eternity to drink in the look of wonder in her eyes, to memorize her scent, her taste, the press of their bodies together.

He sighed. In another world, she could not exist with him. She was _shemlem_. The word tasted like bile in his mouth. _Shemlem_ , Quickling, a frail, short-lived mortal. Even if the wonders of his youth were returned, if time were no consideration, she was drastically incompatible in that world. Her life would be but a thought in the wide expanse of his years, a flash, and a puff of smoke carried off in the wind.  
  
He turned his head to nuzzle his chin against her hair and drank in the sweet scent of her, reminiscing their lovemaking. How she had clung to him, how she had cried out his name. The delirious look of pleasure-stupor as he kissed her, the flush that dusted her round breasts. The press of her soft, moldable form against his hard frame. How perfectly she fit in the spaces between his arms. His heartbeat skipped, and he squirmed ever so slightly under the sheets as he remembered, his desire slowly beginning to burn again. Her slick sweetness on his lips, the shocked sounds of pleasure as he teased her core with his tongue. The pleasure-pained expression as she coupled with him. The quickening pace of their lovemaking, the way her hips rose up to meet him. Her breathless, desperate clawing as she came for him, and how glorious it had been to find his peace in her. The slow thrumming of pleasure through his body as his breath slowed, and the sweetness as he drew her next him and their pulses slowed to a unison beat.

Even now, she lay pressed against him, her arm draped longingly, protectively across his chest. He sighed, running his hands down the length of her side and over the rise of her flared hips. After pressing his lips firmly to her forehead, he gently roused her awake, twirling invisible patterns over her thighs. She blinked slowly, taking in a deep breath as she stirred from sleep.  
  
“I was having the nicest dream,” she said with a drowsy smile. “Oh,” she said through a yawn, walking her fingers up his chest before gently poking his nose. “It was all _real_.”

“ _On dhea_ , _Ma’Vhenan_ ,” he grinned.  
  
“ _On dhea_ , Solas.”

Her eyes glittered in adoration of him, and he knew he would lament the day he caused those same eyes to cry for him. He pressed the thought from his mind.  
  
“Come,” he said as he rose. She sat up from the bed, and the moonlight rimmed her voluptuous form in silver. She must have caught his eyes on her, for she grinned cheekily, and slowly dragged her hands along her curves, over her ribs, through her hair and over her head. He exhaled a guttural noise of desire. “You _nymph_.”

She smirked, and he lunged.  

 

 

*   *   *

 

 

“We should dress,” he finally insisted, pressing a final kiss on her neck. “There is, after all, several hours of dancing left.”  
  
She smiled. “You’d dance with me?” She felt giddy, silly like a child at the proposition.  
  
He nodded, a soft expression on his face that warmed her chest. “I’ve been anticipating it.”

Solas had no trouble lacing up the dragonbone corset or plaiting her hair back in intricate coils, and she marveled at his skills. “Where did you learn to do that?”  
  
He grinned satisfactorily as he looped a curl back into place. “There are some things one learns from experience. Others, you can learn by witness. The Fade has many things to teach you.”

“I know that, Solas,” she chuckled as she adjusted the heavy jewelry onto her neck. “But where _specifically_ did you learn to do that?”

“It may surprise you to learn that as a much younger Elf, I had nearly as much hair as you.”  
  
Her jaw dropped, and she whipped around, pulling the braid out of his hands, earning her a playful scowl of disapproval. “Really?” She could not keep the smile from pulling at her lips. “You? With hair? I can’t imagine!”  
  
“Well, it is true. I had a lordly head of hair, and I was quite proud of it,” he admitted with a proud tilt of his chin. His fingers resumed the work of making her hair presentable before the Court. “I would not shy from saying I was quite handsome.”  
  
She chuckled behind her lips as she leaned in to press a soft kiss on his cheek. “You _are_ handsome.”  
  
He reach out and brushed a stray curl out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. “Perfect,” he said softly. He stood, extending a hand to her. “Shall we?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I won't be updating until after the New Year, so enjoy your holiday and have a Happy Christmas! Consider this my gift to you. ;-) You deserve it! 
> 
> P.P.S. I noticed some formatting errors that only show up in html and not rich text for some reason. As I only have my phone, I'm not able to correct it. But I will when I get back to a PC. (It's 4:19am and I need to sleep before vacation starts. Yipe!)
> 
> Elvhen, as always, by FenxShiral 
> 
>    
> Ara vhen'an / 'Ma vhen'an= My home/my heart. Similar to 'my love,' or 'my darling,' but signifying a much deeper connection. Essentially means, "Where you are, that is my home."
> 
> Eman nar dhru = Do I have your faith/Do you trust me?
> 
> Emas emma dhru = You have my faith/I trust you.
> 
> Isalan dera na aron tuelan = I lust to touch you like a creator/I will touch you like a god.
> 
> On dhea = good morning.


	34. The Clock Strikes Twelve

 

When Lissa slipped through the doors from the room, her own feelings baffled her. It was not something she could ever dilute to mere words, but her mind tried just the same. Her arm was slipped through his. It was the same as before, as they walked together down the same hall, in the same clothes on the same night. But it was so, _so_ different.

The manic heat of her mind that was brushed with doubt had been exchanged for a constant, assured warmth that spread across her skin. Instead of the frantic pace of her heart, an easy pulse swept through her veins. He turned his head towards her, just to give her a soft smile. Her heart jumped, her breath hitched, and her lips split into a wide smile. She felt so wonderful. _He_ made her feel so wonderful! She only hoped that, in some small way, she helped him feel that way, too.

Wide double doors creaked with effort as a pair of guards opened the doors to the main hall. Despite the lateness of the hour (was it really closer to dawn than midnight?) people stood about and gossiped as they had at the start.

“My goodness. Just when I think Orlesians are nothing but air and gossamer, they amaze me with their ability to endure for long hours on nothing but gossip and wine.” She chuckled, clutching more tightly to his side. “And in corsets and heels no less.”

He kept his gaze ahead to the ballroom beyond. “In masks such as theirs, it is harder to tell if they have endured the entire evening. But most take moments of reprieve to invigorate themselves for the rest of the evening.” He broke his focus then and turned to her with a dark-rimmed gaze. “As we have.”

Heat rushed to her face. Yes. Yes, they did steal a moment to themselves. It was wonderful to be reminded that it actually happened, but still so . . . embarrassing? No, that was not the right word. She would never be ashamed of loving a man like Solas. But . . . it was so very new. To think that someone might have heard his words . . . . She colored.

“Is it expected that such escapades occur?” She wondered with not a little hesitation.

“Yes,” he answered too quickly. “It tends to be the norm. With any great amount of wine and boredom, most people quickly find it easy to couple in a dark corner or in the gardens. It is not so uncommon.”

So it was nothing special? It was . . . common?

“Oh.”

“That you are green to such events is refreshing. Come,” he urged, gratefully pressing the matter no further, “let us have that dance I promised.”

If he noticed the glances of disgust and probing curiosity, he paid them no mind. He held his chin erect as they were ushered into the double doors leading the grand ball room. The chamberlain suddenly bellowed, “Presenting the Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, Lady Trevel-“ his words were cut off in a squelch of surprise as she gripped his bicep.

She leaned close to the man, whispering insistently, “You can address me by first and last name only. Please.”

He looked down the glowing hand on his arm nervously. “A-as you wish, Lady Inquisitor.” He swallowed hard, turning back to the ballroom guests. “The Lady Lissa Trevelyan, and the Lady Inquisitor’s Elvhen manservant.”

 _Oh, for the love of_ – As Sera would say, that had gone a bit “tits up.” She remembered the portion about her name, but how could she forget _that?_ She grimaced, stepping out with her toe to the first step to the tiled dance floor. He squeezed her arm and chuckled bemusedly. “Does it really bother you so much?” Her heels clacked on the smooth surface, and he released the tight hold on her arm to gently guide her to face him. “I would think you’d rather appreciate having that sort of power.” He set on her a needy gaze as he dipped in a slow bow. “If our tryst was any indication.”

Habit of the evening allowed her to bend in a smooth curtsey, despite the numbness of her mind. Her face was hot, and her mind could only hear the drumming roar of her pulse and the faintest passing buzz of fragmented thoughts. Was this the normal outcome of things? Were they to dance and . . . then what? In the heat of the moment, she had not considered what was next.

He was right. She was “green” to these sorts of things. Never did she imagine that something as simple as love could be so complicated.

His hand was outstretched, ready to take hers in the first stance of the dance. She was reaching, about to meet his, when suddenly a voice interrupted. “Excuse me, _In-kwee-zee-tur_ ,” a smarmy male voice insisted, “I would very much love to have this dance.” The way the man pretended to completely ignore the fact that she had a partner was enough to quicken her pulse. But Solas gave away no feelings of injustice. In fact, he seamlessly shifted from taking her hand to dance to placing it in the courtier’s hand, and bowing as if he had done the man a service.

 _Ah_ , she remembered, _he’s only a servant here. Most would wish him to be invisible, despite his rather obvious presence._

With a stiff whisk, they were off, spinning and gliding across the floor. She spent the first half of the dance politely acquiescing to his incessant compliments and ignoring the rather salacious ones. The second half was spent discussing trade relations between his company of textiles and the Inquisition. Somehow, she managed to keep from saying anything binding, and directed him to Josephine and still retained his favor. Of course, as they bowed to each other at the end, and he left with a hungry look over his shoulder, she was not sure she cared for his brand of favor.

In the brief respite, she searched the shadows, eyes darting in every corner. Where had he gone? She had so many questions! Another noble approached her, plain mask contrasted to the elaborate, obnoxious stitching on the placket of his breeches. Well, no doubt what he wanted everyone’s attention on. As she was whisked away, she had to resort herself to stiff, one word replies lest her role as a leader of the world be tarnished with bad manners. Apparently, it was becoming a sport to see if one could woo the Herald. Was there to be some sort of prize for anyone who bedded her? Or was this the normal, animalistic behaviors one could expect of the courts of Orlais?

Just then, she caught the faintest glimmer in the shadow of the north wall. The subtle shine was accompanied by a grin, and even from here she could see his amusement.

All told, she must have danced two dozen dances with men and women alike (thankfully not all of them so forward) . . . but not one with Solas. By now the reach of dawn had slowly crept into the skies. A warm glow, still weak and only pink with newness, slowly seeped into the dark. The light grew until half the sky was washed with the warm colors of dawn. The sun shimmered along the tiles like it were a smooth lake, and suddenly she realized how tired she had become.

As she came up for a bow, another hand reached out to hers, lithe but strong in its grip.

“Inquisitor,” Leliana met with a smile. “Your efforts have truly been notable. As I’m sure you will be relieved to hear, we are moving out back to Skyhold.”

Lissa felt her breath loosen and slip from her dry lips. A warm hand was suddenly on her back, and she looked up to meet her favorite pair of grey eyes. His hand rested not low enough to be intimate, or high enough to be controlling. It was a careful placement, daring enough for the court to notice but not enough for them to lose face in The Game. In a simple gesture, he had managed to let the entire court know that he was more than a manservant, but he did not risk the Inquisition’s political status to do it. It was clever, calculated. Had their respite been the same? Had it been nothing more than a checkmate to an elaborately planned game? If so, for what?

“Would you care for a drink, Lady Inquisitor?” There was a subtle lilt in his tone. He was definitely enjoying this. He offered a tray, a tall crystal chalice filled with a clear liquid her dry throat sincerely hoped was water. Leliana trained her eye on him for a just a moment, barely perceptible, before she began with a sly smile.

“There are several promising alliances that could be born from tonight, if the many businessman approaching Josephine at your request are any indication.” Her smirk grew at Lissa’s huff.

Josephine appeared, and despite the lateness – no, earliness – of the hour, she appeared as fresh and alert as she had when the night began. “Well, I certainly have my work cut out for me,” she crossed her arms and raised her dark brows. “Along with the trade propositions, I’ve actually several offers of marriage.”

Lissa barked a laugh. “Well, congratulations, Josie! Who is the lucky winner?”

“You misunderstand, Inquisitor.” Her smile sharpened, her bright teeth brandished like a knife. “I had several requests for _your_ hand in marriage.”

She felt her face contort beside herself. What an absolutely revolting idea!

Josie tittered, a delicate laugh perfectly tuned to their atmosphere. “Do not worry; I’ve had plenty of practice fending them off with all the ones I received regarding our blonde Commander.”

Like the rats that lived to scavenge the Circle at night, when dawn appeared at its brightest, courtiers scurried away, retreating to their carriages once the full brightness of morning had risen. The musicians were packing away their instruments, and servants began immediately to sweep the floors.   
  
Her feet throbbed in her shoes. “You don’t suppose it would be appropriate to take off my shoes yet?” she begged with a tease. _Ow. A little ice magic would do just the trick later_.

“Not until we are safely in the carriage. Come,” Leliana placed a slender hand on her shoulder. “I think Cassandra is ready to be back in her armor.”

 

 

The carriage was a welcome sight. She nearly jumped (the awkward, rushed tumble of heels and skirts that it was) into the cabin and planted herself firmly in the seat. Before the others began to board, she was already peeling the shoes from her aching feet.

Varric clamored in next, a look of mixed relief and irritation as he dropped on the bench. “Well, that was something.” The carriage lurched, and the door was nearly ripped from the hinges. It slammed against the side, bouncing back again before in stomped Cassandra. Her face was plastered with a threatening glare, unusually terse, even for her.

“I never want to see so many Orlesians in one place ever again.” She practically threw herself in the spot next to Varric, instantly setting a burning stare out the window as if her eyes would melt down the entire Winter Palace.

“Here, here,” Varric added, loosening the pull of his sash and turning his collar just so.

Lissa could not help but chuckle. “Was it really so terrible?”

Cassandra whipped a look of disgust on her. “Yes,” she nearly spat. “It was terrible.”

It was almost funny. In fact, Lissa would have mostly agreed. Not all of it had been terrible. In fact, amidst the political undercurrents, murderous penalties, and grabby partners, the worst part of the entire charade was this: the uncertain after.

The slow-building quiver in her gut was interrupted as the cabin door shut with a latch. Before her mind could question it, a crack split outside – a whip, she realized – and the clack of hooves began their steady rhythm.

Her heart jumped into her throat. Where was Solas? A tangy acid crept in her throat as her stomach clenched with nerves. Was everything alright? Varric and Cassandra did not seem to be worried. Did he regret the time they spent together? Or was that all that was expected?

“Cassandra,” she started, trying to keep the worry from seeping into her voice, “have you heard from Solas? I expected him to be riding back in the same carriage he arrived in.”

“I would not worry. There were several carriages yet. Perhaps he was relegated to the carriage with the servants.” The warrior crossed her arms about her chest, and wriggled down into the corner against the window. There was no concern or unusual tension about her. Obviously Cassandra did not think there was anything to worry about.

So then why did she feel so anxious?

 

The carriage ride was much longer when sleep eluded her. Her back burned, tightened with stiffness. Her shoulders felt uneven, and her right shoulder had a slow growing knot at the base of her neck. She rolled them, and something like the sound of gravel moved beneath the skin, but it provided no relief.

“Whoa,” the footman called. The carriage slowed, creaking as it settled to a stop.

When at last she made that last step onto solid ground, the noon sun was hanging high in the air. Clean, crisp zephyrs gusted through the stone walls, rife with the scents of pine, leather, and burning wood. Mixed voices echoed along the stone walls and the sounds of renovations, of hammers and sawing timber, carried on the wind. She paused to close her eyes and draw in a deep breath of it, of Skyhold.

Of home.

“Inquisitor,” Josephine called. Somehow, she had already changed into her usual attire, although the makeup and hair remained from the night before. Bits of hair were pulled out like snags in a sweater, and her makeup lacked the fresh appeal it had several hours ago. The once alluring rims of kohl were now smudged, turned into dark circle beneath her eyes. Lissa imagined she looked much the same.

“Yes, Josie?” She asked politely, but scanned behind the woman, looking for any signs of her elven lover.

“I am glad to see you made it well.” The Antivan gave her a quick look. “You could have changed.”

She gave her a half-interested reply. “Oh . . . I didn’t realize.” _Where was he?_ Soldiers carried in fresh lumber, a few birds flew overhead, messages tied about them. But there was no sign of Solas.

“You are still in that dress? I am impressed. Now, I know that we are all in need of some recovery, but I have a few things that need your approval.”

“Yes.”

“You are not even listening,” she chided, reaching out to clasp her wrist. “Come. We will get you out of that corset before we discuss more business.”

 

In a blur of events, she was changed, back into familiar, comfortable garb. For the first time in many hours, she felt she could breathe deeply. Her old, worn leather boots with the gash in the side (Josephine hated them) were slipped on in place of the heeled instruments of torture. She actually sighed when she slipped them on and wriggled her toes for good measure.

The next several hours were punctuated by tedious questions (beef or lamb? Velvet or damask?) in preparation for the upcoming dragon-slaying celebration.

“I feel that the suggestion you made for games is appropriate,” Cullen’s voice offered somewhere in the back of her attention.

“I, however, am not so sure. While these activities will no doubt be popular among the soldiers, the nobility will most likely be less impressed.”

Even in her distracted state, the penetrating stare of her spymaster bore a hot hole into her skin. Lissa was jolted from her reverie and apologized with a wave. “I apologize. It seems I have need to recover from Halamshiral.” She turned to Josephine, decidedly putting her thoughts of Solas to the back of her mind. “Why would the nobles not find it entertaining? Isn’t sponsoring a champion something every lord does at the Grand Tourney?”

Josephine tapped her chin. “Permitting the lords and ladies to sponsor a competitor would bring about a great deal of interest. There has not been a game since the Breach, and I do not doubt it would raise some spirits.”

Lissa smiled. “I don’t know much about Grand Tourneys, but I’m certain we can come up with a series of events that challenge the participants and entertain our nobles.”

Leliana leaned against the table, fingering one of her pieces as her sharp eyes took in the assortment of markers across the map. “Yes! And if we play our hand correctly, we may discern some very interesting things about our allies during such an extended stay.”

“And the exercise would be good for the spirit of our men,” Cullen added, standing a bit straighter and his eyes clearer than they had been in days. Was it simply being away from the Winter Palace that had his spirits improved, or was it something else? “Nothing like a good competition to revive the spirit. Considering recent events, I heartily say I look forward to it.”

“Well! This is a rare occasion indeed, and cause for more celebration!” Lissa beamed, stepping back from the table to take in the sight before her. “All three of my Advisors agreeing on something? If this is what happens when we collectively suffer in Orlais, we should perhaps consider it a regular outing.”

Cullen’s face sank. Leliana and Josephine tittered, and he stiffened, coloring a bit at their teasing.

“Perhaps not,” she offered with a chuckle. “I’m not in any hurry to relive the events of Halamshiral myself.” Her mind drifted to the blistering shoes, the biting of the dragonbone corset against her ribs, the weight of the eyes of the Court resting on her with silent threats. It did not take much coaxing for those thoughts to turn to softer, warmer memories: slender, calloused fingers trailing down her back; strong hands fisting in her hair; full, firm lips slanting hot and wanting against her mouth . . . and the accompanying knot of anxiety in her stomach.

“Oh? I thought you rather enjoyed yourself, Inquisitor.” Leliana crooned with a knowing humor that twisted Lissa’s gut.

Lissa cleared her throat. “There were certain redeemable moments.” She straightened, turning with practiced poise towards the map. “Now, as to these contests . . . I am not certain what is standard at this sort of event. I will leave it up to you to make suggestions. I trust you have more than a few ideas, Commander?”

He loosened a bit then, settling a hesitant look on her. “I will prepare a list of recommendations.”

“And I will mention the ones sure to bring us the most revenue from sponsors.” Josie flicked her wrist, noting something on her parchment.

“Well then, I think it is time we all recuperated from our trip to Orlais,” Leliana suggested, giving Lissa a slanted glance of consideration. “I think we could all use some time to readjust.”

Did she know how true that was?

 

Slowly, she lowered herself into the porcelain tub, easing herself into the hot water. Steam curled from the surface and her skin began to turn a bright pink. Ribbons of hair splayed across the surface behind her like a ruby cloak. With a wistful look, she considered the bottle of rose oil on the wooden shelf beside her. She fingered, turning it back and forth and watching as the candlelight flickered in the pale pink glass. Her reflection looked back at her, somber and tired. Gone were the intricate plaits of hair befitting of a regal lady. The kohl and rouge of a lover had come off in the water, and the flattering garments lay in a shapeless pile on the floor. She searched the reflection of her own eyes and wondered. Had it truly been her he had sought in the sheets, or was it the woman she wore for a night?

Her fingers touched her cheekbone just below the hollow of her eye. Her freckles were visible again, having washed away the layers of minerals and creams they had used to perfect her complexion. She dragged her fingertips down to her lips, her lips that seemed too plain and small without the rouge that shaped them to perfection. She put down the bottle and slipped her hands back beneath the hot water. Drawing her knees to her breasts, she rested her chin on her knee caps, pink from the water.

_Was it just some sort of fantasy?_

Had she, in her haste and want, imagined that there was more there than there was? She remembered the taste of him, warm and tart, the fruit of wine on his breath. Had it been some drunken oversite on his part?

She pushed the thoughts from her mind. No, he had said he loved her. The water splashed, renewing the scent of roses as she reached for the rough sponge and chunk of soap. She lathered, too aimlessly, and slowly dragged the suds from her ankles to her knees.

Her mind raced with memories: his hands smoothing over her leg, shifting between the full press of his palm to the tingling tips of his calloused fingers; his lips breathing foreign words over her bare skin, something between a prayer or a promise as he worked to undo the braids hanging down her back. A jagged sigh sawed from her lungs. She was not blind to her own merits or her faults; she was not a homely woman, but she had not the rich beauty of Josephine or the striking features of Cassandra. And she certainly did not have the smooth, catlike confidence with which Vivienne prowled. Her skin was fair and prone to ruddiness, with freckles dusted here and there and almost everywhere. And though most days she liked her freckles, it was hard not to envy the velvety smoothness that Vivienne’s skin had.

No, that would be nice, she knew, but it was not truly the heart of her question. As she stood out of the tub, reaching for the softly woven towel, she knew that a change of skin would not give her the answer. As she rubbed down her body and drew the towel over her less than perfect figure, she understood that, even if she had not the too-generous curves or the peppering of scars she still would not know.

_Why?_

Why had he chosen her?

And where was he to ask?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your patience! With the hullabaloo of the holi-daze out of the way, I was finally able to crank out this chapter! 
> 
> I have switched occupations as well, and I am slowly beginning to find a more regular schedule. With that, I hope to work in more regular updates. 
> 
> I love you all and thank you for your continued support!!! You are the best!!!


	35. NSFW: Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient with me! I've been trying to find a balance now that I'm off of my crutches and complete with physical therapy AND working on starting a new job. I appreciate you all SO much!!! You have no idea how much your kudos and ESPECIALLY your comments mean! They really make my day. It's a bit silly how often I check my notifications after each chapter checking to see if someone commented. ^^" 
> 
> Also, if you like Lissa and Solas, I'm co-authoring another fic which you can find here! http://archiveofourown.org/works/5765431/chapters/13285597 Please subscribe! I know you're going to love it. <333

Solas returned from his work back to Skyhold and neared the gate. Absently, he ran his palm against the stone as he passed, reaching out to the magic long asleep within it. Keeping to the shadows, he entered by the small door to the side of the gates. He remembered having designed it this way for better security. If ever he wished, the wide gate would be shut and only a single body could enter when bidden. Now the Inquisition had its gates open almost constantly, taking in refugees and shipments of goodwill from would-be allies. But he still preferred to linger in the familiar shadows when he could, shadows that allowed private moments of memory like this one.

From the side emerged one of the workers, an elf who worked as a carpenter here. He smelled of wood and earth, and his eyes darted back and forth with the uncomfortable wariness of a new recruit.

“How have things been at Skyhold?” Solas asked, pausing with his hands behind his back. 

“Hazy and a sharp wind from the north,” he tucked his chin to his chest and glanced sideways, “Nothing that would keep stop the world from changing, after all.”

Ah, one of _his_ as he suspected. He was obviously new, considering his uneasy manner and the sweat glistening on his brow. But there was a fire in his eyes, and that passion helped to stoke the fires of even his oldest agents.

“Anything of importance?”

The man shook his head. “Nothing greatly alarming. Although a few of the Inquisitor’s friends have been looking for you. Her carriage returned about two hours before your arrival with the other carriages.”

He paused to blink. Why would they be looking for him? “Thank you.” He nodded, pushing through the door into the inner courtyard of Skyhold.

Lanterns flickered from posts surrounding the tents for the infirmary. Even now, a nurse was aiding a young refugee out of the tent and onto the cot, using the sunshine to lift his spirits. Something tugged within his chest. He remembered seeing a pate of copper curls bobbing between the injured. Her robes had been stained with blood and brow covered in sweat from her efforts . . .

 

_“Inquisitor,” he insisted, pulling her out of her focus. With a sigh, she tore her eyes away from the patient before her now sleeping soundly. Her hair was pulled back, and short tendrils stubbornly stuck out. She sighed, trying to get a sliver of hair unstuck from her damp forehead. Her eyes were tired, but it was the way the burden carried on her shoulders that had him concerned. “Perhaps you should rest. They are stable now, and will need sleep.” He watched as her kind eyes drifted back to the souls on the cots, or the ground, splayed out in a drugged sleep. Through the ground he felt the soft hum of her runes, a sleeping spell, he realized, that hummed with a gentle whisper urging them to sleep. It had been woven beautifully, the delicate layers of the spell uttered like a lullaby. He could feel the tenderness in it, raw and hopeful, urging the needy to surrender to rest. How could they resist?_

_“I can ‘andle it from ‘ere, Your Worship,” a young woman, a healer in their numbers, urged with a gentle smile. “It means the world t’ them y’ showed up. To see the Herald’s face . . . it’s like an angel of the Maker t’ them.”_

_This seemed to weary Lissa further, but she nodded and offered a tired grin. “I hope I have helped in what way I am able. Thank you for your help, Maybeth.”_

_“Tis a genuine pleasure, m’lady.”_

_Solas offered her a hand, and she accepted. The tacky blood in her palms did not bother him. He had seen much worse as a healer. “Is there anything I can do, Lissa?”_

_She straightened, pressing against her low back with her palms. “I only wish we had something better to offer the wounded than a patch of dirt next to the loud gate. How can one rest properly in a place like this?”_

_He watched her curiously. “Skyhold is yours now,” he offered, meaning it more personally than he should. Did he think it was some sort of gift? “If you would change it, you have that power.”_

_She nodded slowly, the thought seeming to take root and blossom in her beautiful mind. “Wouldn’t it be nice if they had potted herbs nearby for the healers? And flowers to raise their spirits? Each one should have a cot of their own, and space enough to heal and breathe. They could have fresh air, a view of the stars, and –“ She paused, looking at him bashfully. “Well, perhaps I will bring it up to Josephine. We can do better for these men.” She turned to look on the injured, a sympathetic gaze tugging her features. “We have to try.”_

“Bright, brilliant, and baffling but can’t look away. It is wonderful and terrible, but there is . . . a question. What is it that makes you wonder?” a gentle voice queried from the dark.

Slowly, he drew in air through his nose and let it fill his chest before measuring it out over his lips. He should be more cautious about letting his feelings be so open. “There are always questions,” he answered vaguely.

Cole appeared on the nearby stone ledge, dangling his legs over the edge. The brim of his hat obscured most of his features. _Always so willing and eager to help, Compassion_ , Solas mused. _But when you believe your actions to be the only solution, when does your compassion turn into pride?_

“So bright, so beautiful. But stunted, silent. Still seeking the way. She was bright before. The mark only made it . . . bigger, brighter. She was always her.”

“Ah,” was all he could manage. “I see.”

Cole lifted his gaze, hopeful eyes so desperate to help. “You would always notice. But the mark made you see.” His eyes widened with a sudden interest. “Would you like to know what she thinks?”

“I . . . “ that he did not refuse immediately was telling. True, the time they had shared at Halamshiral seemed to be revealing. But of what? That he had a moment of insanity and let a simple lust fracture the possibility of his long-awaited plans? That an impressionable young mage could be swayed so easily? He did wonder many things. Whatever anomalies he had witnessed in her could be explained away so easily. How much did their time together really mean when he knew he could not do anything to sustain it, when she was still human after all, a human so young and lonely, perhaps desperate for attention –

“You are alike,” Cole mused softly. “So used to being on your own. ‘ _How could I let myself be so vulnerable? Was any of it real? What happens from here? Please, I don’t want to be alone again_.’”

“Cole,” he insisted more sharply than he should have. “I would ask you not to interpret my thoughts on such matters.”

The spirit seemed  . . . confused, injured even at his accusation. He started, hesitating. “They are not _your_ thoughts. They are _hers_.”

 

*    *    *

 

He walked the ramparts, passing a few guards on their evening shift. The afternoon was cool, and the sky was mostly clear, peppered with only a few clouds to blemish the view for miles.

He reached beneath him to the stone and felt the slow-waking hum of the old spells he had placed there, spells that would render this place nigh invincible to any mortal power. He called to it, as he had again and again, until his head throbbed and a sharp pain built behind his right eye. Finally, when the cold air began to lick the sweat from his brow, he broke his focus with an aggravated sigh. _Still weak_.

He leaned his weight against the ledge, cursing the tremor in his muscles from exertion. The wind whistled over his ears, tugging at his collar. On it, he heard the same whispers he had heard so many years ago, although they had greatly dimmed with age. No one else could probably hear them, he realized, faded as they were now. He stepped towards the battlement, resting his elbows on the edge and pressed shut his eyes. _What a relic you are to these people_ , he thought with a crooked grin. A relic and a monster they would see him as, no doubt, if they knew the truth.

 _Perhaps . . ._ he wondered, and at once regretted the start of it. _No_. It did not do to wonder about such impossibilities! He had taken the long way around the ramparts to avoid thinking of her. Though why he should have taken such an unnecessary precaution was ridiculous, he insisted. She was surely occupied in her role as Inquisitor.

So why _did_ he take the long way around?

He pushed away from the ramparts, shaking his head as it to clear it of his warring thoughts. He did not have time for idle musings; he had work to do.

He passed through the tower where the Commander gave out orders. He was thankfully not there, even though the sharp scent of lyrium still permeated the place. He could not help but wrinkle his nose as he passed through. The door to his study opened with a creak and a gust of warm air rushed out to meet him. The rustle of birds drifted down from the top, and the faintest fragments of conversation could be heard from above. But otherwise, the levels were empty, and only the glow of his lamps kept him company.

He dropped his satchel on the desk, pushing aside an ignored cup of cold tea to make room. His hands gripped a small leather-bound book and he took it out, smoothing his fingers over it thoughtfully. A long, long time ago, Solas had enjoyed art for recreation, an outlet for the soul, a way to learn and observe and reflect back his thoughts to the world. Later, Fen’harel used it for propaganda, making a name for himself and giving courage to those who might dare to stand up to their power-hungry masters. He used to tell stories so that those who followed would not forget.

 _And now I am simply Solas again_ , he mused, cracking open the book.

It was almost unnerving how transparent he could be through his sketches, as if this book would somehow give himself away. From the start, it is academic, distant, catching only the largest details to document the event. The outline of Corypheus’ dragon. The silhouette of Haven as it burned. Images that represented the work that was happening. But then the smaller things began to have attention. The bend in Varric’s nose. The jutting cheekbones of the Seeker. The penetrating eyes of his _da’len_.

And then . . . a shiver worked a crawl up his spine. Each page was filled to the brim, charcoal smudged to the edge of the page as if every space was already claimed – by _her_. The shape of her imperfect nose. The pale slant of her shoulders. The detail of each delicate crevice of her lips. Oh, he had made certain to catch glimpses of other things on each page, but it was obvious his attention had been diverted to _her_. He sighed.

His eyes moved towards the wall, looking at the works that he had so painstakingly recorded. This was more like Fen’harel’s doing, painting up heroics and recording deeds that might inspire while they preserve history. But it was more than that. He looked at the rough prepared space on the wall and considered it, his mind sparking with inspiration.

_Yes, of course._

He set down to the desk, hastily scrawling out the base of his design. He needed only the composition here; the rest of it was in his mind and would be worked out in the plaster. Once he was satisfied, he snapped the book shut and went to work, solely focused on nothing but this, his gift. Her legacy.

It was always easier for him to work close to night. No one would pester him about his technique or barge in unawares asking for advice and waste his precious drying time. True, he missed out on sleep, but this could not wait. He felt the idea quivering in his blood.

With haste, he fetched several pails and old tin buckets from underneath a drop cloth in the corner. He set aside the trowels and wooden dowels and small carved pieces of wood and bone. With care, he reached behind the couch and pulled out a thin cloth and transferred his design to the surface. Once satisfied, he carefully mixed together several ingredients into one of the metal pails. First a thick lime, this batch retrieved from one of the caves in the Storm Coast, was plopped in, and clear water from the spring just outside Skyhold. Finally, he scooped his shovel into a pile of fine ash and added it to mix, ashes from the Conclave. Though no one knew where his ingredients came from, he did, and it only meant more to him that he could create these with works with small pieces of places _she_ had touched. A more authentic tale, he reasoned.

He stirred, consistently and thoroughly until the smooth lavender of plaster was revealed. There was now no time to waste. With trowel and slab full of plaster, he scaled the rafter near the prepared space on the wall. _Shhhhhrk. Shhhhhrk. Shhhhhrk_. Back and forth, back and forth he smoothed the plaster across the wall with the trowel with the fluid, practiced motions of a master. Time was of the essence. Once the plaster was on the wall, he had only the night to finish before the plaster dried and rejected pigment. But he was focused and prepared.

The section now coated, he hopped down from the scaffolding to mix in more lime to the plaster until it was almost white. With careful, deliberate strokes, he added the thinnest of layers on the wall over the plaster, paper thin to make the colors bold. He stood back but for a moment to eye his work and paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, trowel still in hand. It was good, but he had a lot of work to do.

 _Quickly. Carefully_. He mixed the pure pigments (some of his own creations, others were imported thanks to Josephine) with water and reached for the brush.

Five hours passed. His back was burning, arms straining with each stroke. But he had much more left to do. The pain reminded him of why he was doing this – _all_ of this – and what his People had lost. Frescos such as this were not always frantic works of a single night; they were deliberate masterpieces that were often the result of years of work, the plaster’s life sustained by magic. But here he had to rush, he had to be _quick_ , like everything else in this world.

Ten hours. The dark started to deepen and the rustle of servants and soldiers began to hush. The plaster responded well. It was the perfect time to flesh out the details. The plaster was taking in pigments readily, a sign that his time was growing short. It would soon dry.

He paused only to step back the opposite end of the room and gave a critical gaze over his work. His eyes narrowed, his jaw set as he searched for any room for improvement, any need for change. But it was good. At least, it was suited for his purpose here, to document the history. _In the future to come . . . ._ He bowed his head. Someone should know what had happened here, what she had accomplished.

It was good. With a satisfied sigh, he sat in his chair and reached for the cold cup of tea, if only to keep his hands occupied. His lips pulled to the side in a knowing grin. It may be good, but it was so, _so_ inadequate. How could he properly capture the thrill of the evening, sending and catching unsure glances across the ballroom, the press of her hips as she walked arm in arm with him, or the supple rise of her breasts? His pulse quickened and his heart surged behind his ribs as his mind was captivated with the memory.

_Tongue hot and sweet against his. Her hands clutching to his back, crawling up his neck to stroke his ears, his jaw as he pressed against her lips with his. Her form, so pliant beneath his frame, breasts all crushed beneath his chest as he reached one hand between her legs. The way her breath caught, her hips bucked. The way she said his name._

_“Solas . . . .”_

Crash! The world came back into sharp focus as his cup shattered against the floor, sending cold tea and fractured porcelain across the tile.  

“Sorry, Chuckles,” Varric apologized, reaching down to pick up a few of the shards. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It was not your fault, Master dwarf. I was simply . . . deeply engaged in thought.”

The dwarf’s eyes narrowed just slightly, and his lips curved in his usual roguish smile. “Yeah, I noticed. To be honest, I didn’t expect to find you here. Shortcake has been looking for you.”

He nodded, waving his hand over the area to dry the tea-soaked rug. “I will have to apologize to her in the morning. I have been . . . otherwise engaged.”

Varric followed his eyes to the wall, raising his brows in appraisal. “Wow. That’s quite the addition. She’ll love it.” He shifted his weight to the side as he so often did when he was calculating. What was the dwarf planning?

“You know,” he started slowly, measuring his success, “she was pretty worried about you. She’d sleep a lot better knowing you were busy painting and not getting secured by the Empress’ cleaning crew.”

“Ha!” he let out in one, prideful laugh. “The Inquisitor knows that I can take care of myself.”

Varric crossed his arms. “That doesn’t stop her from worrying about you. About anyone of us. You don’t have to tell her. You can finish your elven graffiti. But I’m going to tell her at least.”

It was Solas’ turn to cross his arms. “You would wake her when she has had little rest to give news of little consequence?”

Varric shook his head, his expression annoyingly amused. “She’s not _asleep_ , Chuckles. I just talked to her a minute ago. I told her I’d keep an eye out for you so she could stop stalking the Grand Hall. I just sent her to her room when I found you here.”

“I see.” She had been waiting up for a sign of him? Then it was a good thing he thought to use the back entrance. Varric’s eyes still weighed on him, watching him curiously. “There is no need to trouble yourself, Master dwarf. I will inform her myself. Thank you.”

Varric bowed as if he had done a great service. “My pleasure. Now I can back to all the demanding nothingness that was so grievously interrupted earlier,” he grumbled, casting a sparkling gaze over his shoulder before he left.

The door shut too loudly, echoing in his mind. He would have to address this at some point; why not now? His heart thumped too hard in his chest, and mentally he chuckled. Was he so out of practice that a simple conversation sent his blood to racing? _How ridiculous_ , he chided himself with a grin. And yet, here he was, hesitating over simply talking to a young, mortal woman. It was . . . amusing. He took in a deep breath, let it stretch his lungs, and made for her door.

 

 

He rapped three times, and in the small space his mind still managed to wiggle in doubts about his actions. They were ridiculous, unnecessary, and –

“Who is it?” her voice called out, alert and hopeful. It made his throat tighten.

“Might I have a word, _da’len_?” he asked. And for a moment, he wondered if she would let him in. Cole’s words exposing her thoughts came flooding back to him all at once, “ _How could I let myself be so vulnerable? Was any of it real? What happens from here?_ ”

It was silent for a long – too long – moment. Thankfully the pitter-patter of footfall whispered near the door. It creaked open, and her hesitant gaze hid beneath dark lashes. “Solas,” she breathed, too softly, and it sent a shiver from his skull down his spine. “You’re okay! I – please, come in.” She clutched the silken robe to her breasts and turned to ascend the stairs. He took a ragged breath to steady himself and shut the door behind him.

In her room, the state of her mind seemed to be obvious. Her satchel had yet to be unpacked forgotten in a heap in the corner. Instead of her studious notes and several tomes being contained to her writing desk, they were scattered about the room, some on the couch, a few on the bed, and more than one on the floor next to the winged chair. Something tugged in his chest. He could recount her steps around the room, envision her pacing back and forth, desperate for something to keep her mind occupied, anything to distract it. But this book wouldn’t do, so it was dropped, and back to the bookcase she went. Had it truly been his absence that had unsettled her, or was it something else?

She paused in the middle of the room, placing a hand on one large post of the bed as if for support. Her other hand absently scratched against her scalp.

“ _Da’len_ , I –“ She held up a hand to interrupt him, finally turning with a concerned look tightening her features. She was hesitant. Concerned? Ah, what he would have given to know her thoughts!

“Before you say anything, I –“ she paused, taking in a fragile breath as if to screw up her nerve, “I wanted you know something.” She licked her lips, swallowed. “I was inconsiderate. I realize that ‘The Inquisitor’ is a heavy title, and perhaps I had not given a . . . relationship even consideration.”

_What?_

Her hands came together, wringing nervously in front of her. He had watched her address nobility, even royalty, and make judgements on someone’s very life, but never had he seen her so insecure in her words. Her teeth drew in her bottom lip nervously before she started. “I know that you think things through very thoroughly, and I should have been more respectful of that. You were . . . hesitant, and I don’t want you think that I, somehow . . . .” Her eyes darted back and forth as her mind searched for words. “I didn’t say or do anything as “the Inquisitor,” but sometimes I forget that’s who I am, especially when I’m with you.” Her voice softened, her cheeks darkened. “But I realize that it _is_ my position, and whether I intend it to or not, it can put a . . . a pressure on people, and maybe on you and-“

Her words continued stumbling over on another, but his mind had paused, focused solely on her last statement. _She_ was concerned about taking advantage of _him?_ For many years, he had served in a prominent position of leadership alongside Mythal. His victories and success lauded him with many would-be lovers, but he had ignored them for their sake. How could take advantage of his status in such a way? And then, as Fen’harel, many were all too eager to express their gratitude through ill-proposed romance to their ‘savior.’ It had indeed been a long, long time, and now it seemed the roles had been reversed. How could he have missed her feelings?

“-I simply want you to know that,” she paused to swallow, washing her face in a forced blankness, void of feeling, “you still have a choice.”

His chest compressed as he watched her there, standing in the middle of the large room looking so very alone. Her face was devoid of expression, her eyes nearly caged, and it pained him to see her use that political, polite mask he had seen her wear so often, but never, _never_ with him.

“ _Da’len_ . . .” His voice rasped over his lips, his mind reeling with directions. Just how could he help her understand that it _was_ his choice? And though it was against his better judgement, and though he would be to blame in the end (the thought sometimes kept him from slipping into the Fade at night), it was a choice he now knew he would have made in any world where they would have found each other.

Her gaze focused on him for just a moment, the depth of want and desperate hope flickering across her amber eyes visible for the briefest breath. One foot stepped in front of the other, again, and once more across the cold stone floor until the rough fibers of Ferelden weave scratched at his soles. He had closed the distance, now only an arm’s reach from her. He could hear her breath hitch in her chest, watch the struggle in her face as she worked her jaw in an attempt to remain placid.

Her petal pink lips worked with some struggle to let the words form. “Y-you can walk away. I would not hate you.”

The sentiment plunged deeper and sharper than she had intended. She may not hate him now. She may not intend to hate him ever. But if she knew the truth? Surely then she would –

“I would be happy to be your friend if that is all you wish.” The mask had slipped off, and her eyes, so intent and sincere, shimmered with pooling tears. “I just – I’m . . . I want only that you do not despise me.” A nervous laugh sawed from her pale throat followed by words so fragile carried on a delicate whisper. “I couldn’t bear it.”

Was his chest truly made of flesh? For it felt as though a sky of stone had crushed against his frame of glass. Without thought, his hand flew to her cheek. He caressed her skin with his thumb, enjoying the gentle give of her. “Lissa . . . had I known you as Queen of Orlais or penniless vagabond, I could _never_ despise you.”

Her breath – how long had she been holding it? – released in a warm puff of relief that brushed against his wrist. The sound of her breath, the feel of its warmth – in it was something so needing, so wanting of confirmation. Or perhaps had he felt in himself? Whoever needed it more, he had not time to determine. Before his mind had caught up to his hands, he had pulled her against him, clutching at her back and drawing her towards his mouth. He needed to feel the press and warmth of her, hungered for the tart taste of her mouth against his. He needed her solid form against his to prove to him, then and there, that this wonderful, beautiful human woman was not some glorious imagination of a deprived mind, void of sanity. She squeaked in surprise, but there was no delay in the clutch of her nails into his back. She moaned, flicking her tongue against his teeth. His knees buckled even as his hands clutched for every part of her. He wanted – he wanted – _anbanal!*_ – he wanted everything and nothing in particular. As long as it was her, only her.

His lips curled against hers, even though her mouth did not stop tugging against his. “ _Juveran na su tarasyl_ , _ma’vhenan._ *” Her breath hitched, slipping out raggedly into his mouth. He swallowed it greedily, muffling her sound of pleasured surprise against his mouth as he cupped her rear until her feet left the ground.

Whether he walked or used the Fade to slip to the bed, he did not know or care, but it was there, bumping against the back of her calves. He laid her down, watching with wonder as she stretched out before him. Her copper waves pooled like a halo beneath her head and trailed down her sides to brush her hips like a waterfall of rubies. The silken shift, thin and gossamer, did nothing to hide the generous curves hiding beneath. His eyes roved over the soft mounds of her breasts, watching as they gently raised with each of her waiting breaths. He imagined them then, bouncing as they did when he worked her towards pleasure, remembered the scent of the sweat that pooled between them and, oh! the taste of her.

His throat worked down a dry swallow as his heart throbbed in time with his growing desire. His eyes worked a desirous trail down her soft center, brushing over the swell of her hips. Suddenly, he brought his dark gaze to her face, finding there wondering eyes looking back at him.

She blinked once, studying his face intently, but made no move except to tilt her head inquisitively. “What are you thinking?” she wondered aloud, and he wondered if she knew she even spoke it.

Without hesitation, he insisted, “That you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

Her eyes flared briefly. How could she be surprised at his admission? Was she truly blind to her own entrancing beauty? _Perhaps the most beautiful things are_ , he mused. His lips curved into a hungry smile, and he enjoyed not a little the way she could not hold his hot gaze and turned her face away with a blush and a flutter of her lashes.

With care, he bent to place his hands just beneath the crook of her shoulders and enjoyed the way the torchlight cast the shadow of his form over her pale skin. Her eyes widened expectantly, her chest rose and fell beneath him. With a tortuous slowness, he lowered himself to his elbows, carefully settling the bulge of his need against the cradle of her hips. She gasped, closing her eyes with a flutter. Her head tilted back, and he could not resist the creamy column of her neck now so deliciously exposed. He started at her chin and worked his way down, kiss pressed upon kiss until he had was certain there were at least half as many kisses as there were freckles on her skin.

He nipped at the base of her ear, his lips desperate for words to tell her the unspeakable feelings that swarmed behind his breasts. “ _Sasha mar melin julahnan fra nydha. Sasha mar inan juithan fra dhea, ma’sa’lath*._ ” She squirmed beneath him, and whether it was his voice or that she understood him, he did not care; he reveled in the feel of her softness molding against him as she wriggled with subtle pleasure.

He took his time slipping the fabric from her shoulders, undressing her sacredly, pausing to worship each new bit of skin he revealed. The flush that blossomed across the top of her breasts, the scent that bloomed from her core – his breath came sharply against her smooth stomach and he buried his face into her softness just to regain some semblance of focus.

“There are precious few things that draw my attention from the Fade, _fenor_ *, but tonight,” he paused, drawing up to take in the subtle shifts in her face. “Tonight I do not wish to let you sleep.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (by Fenxshiral)
> 
>  
> 
> Anbanal = void
> 
> Juveran na su tarasyl, ma’vhenan  = I will take you the sky/bring you ecstasy 
> 
> Sasha mar melin julahnan fra nydha. Sasha mar inan juithan fra dhea = Only your name shall I cry during the night. Only your eyes shall I see in the morning, my one love.
> 
> Fenor = precious


	36. The Love of Mysteries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas is more of a morning snuggler than Lissa had anticipated. 
> 
> Thanks to artisticallyamber on tumblr for this image! 
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies!!! Small update for now. Thanks so much for sticking with me while the updates are slower. <333 
> 
> While you're waiting for the next update, be sure to check out the Revelations playlist: http://8tracks.com/asthedaydies/the-wolf-i 
> 
> And also check out the other piece I'm co-writing called "Where We Shall Need No Glass." You'll get more of Lissa there, too!

It was the warm bend of light and the subtle shift of the air that coaxed her mind to wake. She rustled the sheets between her legs, enjoying the brush of cool fabric as she stretched. She was used to tents and thin bedrolls and press of twigs and rock between her shoulder blades. There is no birdsong when she wakes on the field; they arise much too early for even the birds. The jostling of supplies and the plodding of soldier’s boots outside her tent flap were usually the sign to rise. Mornings like this, where plush down cushioned her curves and fresh linens draped over her skin and she _finally_ slept until dawn – _oh!_ – mornings like this were decadent.

She blinked, opening sleep-bleary eyes towards the sunlight pouring from the balcony. She breathed, drinking in the scent of luxury – ash long cold in the fireplace, linens that smelled of expensive soap, the fresh scent of dogwood and crystal grace blooming carried on the light spring wind. Had it been that long since she had slept on a bed that didn’t smell like wood smoke or musty pine straw? There were no servants knocking on her door, or any advisory meetings she could remember. She grinned. She would stay, and sleep.

She shifted to roll on her side, and the bed did not give way as it usually did. Mind still muted with dreams and the fade, she lazily wondered at the change.

It was instantly remembered when a lean arm draped over her waist.

Her heart suddenly surged, her mind sparked to life. _Solas. He stayed, then_. She could not force down the stupid grin that split her face, and she really did not want to. The events of the prior night became clearer; he had been given the choice, and he had stayed. She turned her head, burying her face in her pillow to stifle an indulgent titter. Her heart became light and fragmented into a million points of brilliant sparks in her chest. Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip, and she could not keep from wriggling in delight under the cool sheets.

Carefully, enjoying the challenge to see how long she could keep her lover undisturbed, she shifted to her other side to face him. Her eyes rested on his face, and it felt like something in her chest would burst. Everything seemed to still for moment; the dust motes that sparkled in the beams of light paused in their twirl to the ground, and even her lungs stopped their breathing. She was fairly certain her heart skipped a beat in reverence.

He seemed a different person in sleep. Gone were the deep indents of thought, the lines of concern that so often mapped across his face. Her eyes traced the paths those creases left in their wake. _What is it that makes you think so deeply?_ she wondered as her narrowed eyes followed the edge of his brow. She smiled and let her next breath stretch her lungs. There was so much about him that he left to mystery. But glimpses of him, of the truth, seemed to flash once and a while, like a gem in a dark room. She wondered how much of it he permitted and how much he let slip. He did not seem the type to want to keep things hidden. He loved knowledge too much to guard it close to his chest. So then he felt forced for someone reason? _How great a thing it must be to keep even him silent!_ she mused with a mental laugh.

Her eyes rested on him again, her thoughts narrowing to what she knew. There was still such a void when it came to him. What she knew, she loved. But if she knew the rest . . . no. Her mind cut the thought short. What she knew, she trusted. There was no room for doubt in love. And what hints she discovered . . . she had a feeling she knew, but without confirmation, she could not be sure. But then, she supposed, perhaps that was one of the things she loved about him, the little mysteries, the game of searching him out.

His lashes were thick and rested quietly atop his freckle-dusted cheekbones. Her chest twisted. Oh! How torn she was between pressing a kiss to his face for each freckle and pausing to watch him sleep on rare peace. The proud cheekbones sloped toward full lips, slack and plump with sleep. The twisting turned to compression, and the pressure in her chest turned to burning.

He shifted and groaned, his voice thick with sleep. “ _On dhea, fenor_.*” His eyes were gentle and clear, and looked on her with such adoration, she decided then and there she would love the answers she found. He loved her, after all.

“ _On dhea_ , Solas.”

With constant but gentle press, he drew them closer together until he rested his chin against her crown. He nuzzled his chin down the line of her part, and she was pleasurably crushed by the press of his chest as it expanded in a slow sigh.

“ _Ma vhenan_ ,” he breathed like a prayer, “you are . . . _so_ beautiful.”

It was almost frightening how much those words meant, how much space his presence filled. If throughout this war, if something were to happen –

He must have sensed her thoughts, for his arms wrapped around her, hands clutching at her back. He bent his head, pressing his nose against her hair and drew in a long breath and sighed.

“I’m glad you stayed,” she managed, her voice a genuine but timid whimper. He clutched her more tightly, then released her, putting himself at arm’s length. His eyes held her for a heartbeat, then two, and he grinned.

“You thought I would leave?”

Her grin was lopsided and sad, her voice low with memory. “You would not be the first to take what you wanted and leave.” She was not sure why she had said it; Solas had seen the fear of her abuse already, watched it come alive in the demon at the caves.

The sharpness of his gaze returned. “I would never take that from you, Lissa.”

She shook her head, trying to sort her feelings until they formed shapes she could make into words. “No, no; I know you would never – it’s just . . .” A sigh found its way from her lungs to her lips in a slow slither. “I never wanted him to have the satisfaction of . . . of winning, of _taking_ something from me. But I always wondered after that if there was something _wrong_ with me.” He scowled, made to open his mouth but she stopped him with a finger pressed to his lips. “I knew in my head that it wasn’t right, but that didn’t stop – _doesn’t_ stop me from feeling that way. But I promised myself I wouldn’t let that feeling rule me. I was so scared that . . .” she couldn’t bear to say she was afraid he might leave, “that I might be alone, after what happened at the Winter Palace. But I had resolved not let fear make my decisions. I’m just glad you stayed when given the opportunity to leave.” A solemn grin returned to his face, but his eyes remained sharp and thoughtful.

“You are a brave and wonderful person.” His left hand left her hips and moved to cup her cheekbone with his palm, his fingers curling around her ear and raking in her hair. “Losing you would . . .” His throat tensed, Adam’s apple bobbing in a hard swallow.

“Shhh,” she soothed with a grin, brushing the pad of her pointer finger to his full bottom lip, taking a small, selfish pleasure at the struggle waring in his eyes over his words. “We’re together now.” And though it was all too easy to imagine a day when they would not be, when Corypheus or some other of the numerous villains and beasts bested them, today, they were whole and _here_.

The sun was brighter now, and the warmth of it broke through the cool breeze of the balcony. She stirred, her mind set to rise and dress, when his hand brushed her bare hip insistently. She grinned and flopped back against the soft give of the mattress. He arms wrapped around her, one draped across her diaphragm and the other cradling her neck. His fingers worked aimlessly through her curls, and she felt the soft brush of his breath against the top of her scalp.

As she settled in closer, lips spreading in a thin grin, she managed, “the servants will be here soon with breakfast.” She bit her lower lip, drawing it nervously between her teeth. Despite everything that happened, and all the opportunities he had been given, he had stayed. But it was a thing easily concealed. Would it be something he would care for everyone to know?

Was it something she wanted everyone to know?

His voice hummed in affirmation. “Hmm. And what is being served today?”

An embarrassing titter tumbled over her lips. “I do believe it is to include Orlesian breakfast pastries to celebrate the success of Halamshiral. There might even be frilly cakes,” she giggled. “They’re not my favorite. You can lay claim to any sweets.”

She felt his lips turned into a toothy grin against her scalp. “ _Any_ sweets?” His hands tightened their grip until the tips of his fingers indented into the give of her skin. “What an offering.”

 

 

*   *   *  
  
  
With breakfast leisurely concluded, Lissa stood, carefully buttoning up her tunic before heading to the war table. Solas padded near to press a chaste kiss to her temple before heading towards the stairs. “I will be in the rotunda, should you require me,” and though the words were as casual as ever, there was a warmth in his eyes she knew was reserved for just her. She grinned, nodding, and listened as he shut the door behind him.

She indulged in a deep sigh, letting her voice float on the top of her breath. Not a moment after she had buckled her belt, a trio of strict, even knocks pounded against her door.

“One moment!” she called, quickly scaling the staircase, matching the urgent rhythm of the knock. As soon as she opened the door, a very concerned Seeker bore down an intense gaze upon her.

“C-Cassandra,” she forced a grin, wondering if the warrior knew she was being intimidating or if it was just a natural occurrence.

“This may be my business but,” the pause was momentary, and it seemed for a moment as if the Seeker would change her mind. Her curiosity must have won out, for her question came out with the grace of a druffalo dancing Orlesian ballet. “Was that Solas leaving your quarters?”

Ah, yes. Typical Cassandra. But she did love her so. “You are as observant as always. You managed to note the only bald elf in our company among an empty Grand Hall,” she offered smugly, her lips pulling to one side.

Cassandra backpedaled, stumbling over her words. “That is not – what I mean to say is –“ she huffed in that familiar way Lissa found so endearing. “I should not have asked.”

Lissa chuckled. “Perhaps not, but then you wouldn’t be you, Cassandra. Yes, it was Solas.” Her voice warmed when she said his name, and even the Seeker paused in the tender hush.

When she did speak, it was with a quiet curiosity. “If I may ask – you do not have to tell me but – are you . . . romantic with one another?” Her eyes lit up with such an innocent wonder, it was easy not to be offended when she breached her personal space.

“You are right when you say I do not have to tell you,” Lissa grinned, “but you’re my friend, Cassandra. And yes, we are.”

“Oh!” She exclaimed, gauntleted hands coming up to catch her chest as if she were breathless. “How _wonderful_.”

Lissa tittered demurely, dipping her head from the attention. Yes, it was wonderful. “Thank you, Cassandra. I don’t mind telling you because you asked, but . . . I’d prefer to let the knowledge become public naturally,” she raised one eyebrow at her with meaning, “ _without_ your help.”

“I will say nothing,” she acknowledged, the soldier in her surfacing again. “But I am happy for you.”

“Thank you, Cass. Though, I doubt you came to talk about my personal matters.”

Cassandra shook her head. “No, I did not. But Josephine just received a most interesting letter from the University of Orlais. I thought you want to read it.” Her gloved hand offered a crisp parchment with a broken red seal of the University.

“University of Orlais? What could possibly be so important?” Her eyes scanned over the document and her brows furrowed. “The Frostback Basin? What does he think lies out there in those savage wastes? Why get the Inquisition involved?”

“Because he claims to have found traces of the last Inquisitor.”

“Inquisitor Ameridan?” she gasped, the letter taking new meaning in her hands. “Without him, the Chantry, the Templars, Seekers – all of it, for better or worse, wouldn’t be here.” Reverently, she folded the paper. “This is definitely something we should pursue. Assemble the Advisors. I’ll be in the war room momentarily.”

Cassandra nodded, a crooked grin still stuck to her face.

“And wipe that grin off before you talking to them or you’ll make them suspicious,” Lissa laughed.

Cassandra chuckled as well, waving off her advice. “I’m just glad that you’re happy, Lissa. Truly.” With a short nod and a spin on her heels, the Seeker marched down the stairs.

Lissa rubbed the pad of her thumb across the folded parchment. “Inquisitor Ameridan . . . what knowledge have you kept with your disappearance so many years ago?” A shiver worked its way up her spine. Just thinking of the possibilities caused gooseflesh to break across her skin. Her lips parted to a smile. “Well, I do love a good mystery.”


	37. Stone-Bear Hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> Thank you to merwild for this gorgeous illustration!!! <3 <3 <3

Strange flowers Lissa had never seen crawled up trees, laced across the enormous trunks by thick vines. The air smelled different, too, rife with the tang of sulfur, the scent of dank and decomposing foliage, and the familiar scents of camp: freshly turned earth, oiled leather, and burning wood. She enjoyed the sounds of camp again, and this was no small camp; tents peppered within the outpost’s fence, and all around carried the bustle of soldiers. No doubt Lissa would sleep better tonight than when she sat in the oddly still silence of her far-too-large room, alone.

But then, she remembered, she hadn’t been alone as of late.

She worked to fight down a blush and nearly tripped as she misjudged the step before her. She blinked, rubbing her eyes and willing the headache building behind them to cease, but it was no use. It slowly pulsed behind her forehead, throbbing in time with the mark in her palm.

“Are you alright, Inquisitor?”

Lissa cleared her throat and trained her eyes towards the familiar voice. “Thank you for asking, scout Harding. I’ll be fine,” she waved off her concern. It wouldn’t do to alert the troops about their leader’s encroaching blindness. “Something is . . . different about the mark. Are there Fade rifts nearby?”

Lace laughed, crossing her arms about her chest. “Yeah, there are, and they’re about as dangerous as the local wildlife. Even the people are as bad.”

Lissa furrowed her brows. “It sounds like a terrible place.”

“It is,” Lace spared no love for the Basin. “If the marches don’t swallow you, you’ll have to deal with the gurguts and the occasional giant.”

“Oh my. That sounds awful.”

Lace scoffed, shifting her balance from heel to heel. “That’s not all. There are these . . . creatures. ‘Lurkers’ we’ve started calling them. Mostly because you never know they’re there until it’s too late. They hunt in packs. The _spit_ poison.” Harding sighed, shaking her head with more frustration than Lissa had ever seen her reveal. “We lost a soldier to some the other day. Just how many, we can’t be sure. He went to take a . . . break in the bushes, if you get my drift. He was gone too long, and when we went to find him, well.” She paused and thinned her lips. Lissa felt her stomach twist. If it were bad enough to unsettle Harding’s sturdy sensibilities, then . . . “We only found pieces. We knew it was the lurkers because of the poison residue clinging to what remained. I still can’t believe it happened, and only twenty paces away.”

Lissa swallowed past a tight knot. “Maker . . . is there anything else I should be worried about?”

Harding met the look on Lissa’s face and chuckled, shaking her head. “Don’t worry, Inquisitor. You’ll keep your head about you. Aside from those? The spiders are nothing to worry about if you’ve got friends. Or some magic, and you always seem to have both. The only other thing you need to know about the unfriendly locals. Big, hulking brutes that call themselves the ‘Jaws of Hakkon.’ They’re more the ‘smash the them to bits and ask questions later’ type. But there are other Avvar towards the east. They seem . . . friendly.”

Lissa nodded slowly, taking in the warnings the dwarf provided with care. “Well, I certainly hope that this Professor Kenric can make use of the sacrifices we’re making here. I have to admit I share an immense curiosity, but your rather colorful report will make it harder to sleep at night.” Lissa chuckled nervously. “I hope you’re happy.”

Lace narrowed her eyes at her askance. “You? Worried over a little report? You’re funny, Inquisitor. You can look Corypheus in the face and still manage to sleep at night, but you’re worried about some overgrown lizards?” It was Harding’s turn to chuckle, her plaited head shaking in amusement. “You’re something else.”

“And you, _Lace_ , are --”

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra interrupted sharply. She stalked towards them with determination, her armored glove fisted around a map. “Professor Kendrick has given us the first direction. I have already marked out a path we can take. We should arrive at these docks in a few hours.”

Harding held up a hand cautiously. “That could be possible, Lady Seeker. But, um . . . if I may?”

Cassandra nodded and handed over the map.

“Well, while the route you’ve picked is very direct, you’ll be soaked up to waist for days. This is nothing but marshes.”

“And marshes mean gurguts,” Lissa interjected.

Lace held back a chuckle. “Well, you really do listen.” Her lips quirked sideways in a warm smile before darting back down at the map. I’d suggest a more north-westerly route through . . . here. "You’ll make it to the docks a little later, but you’ll be dry and avoid most of the lizards.”

“And what of the giant?” Lissa questioned.

“Giant?” Cassandra’s eyes narrowed in a scowl. “There are _giants_ here as well? To think that we do this for a _belt buckle_.”

  
  


*     *     *

  


The fire crackled inside the large hut, causing the shadows of long spikes of wood and old bones to cast grim, dancing shadows along the walls. As if that were not intimidating enough, the Thane of these Avvar, Svarah Sun-Hair, sat atop a throne of bones as if it were as comforting as a pile of silks. Lissa was both intrigued and uncomfortable. But most interesting was their relationships with spirits.

In only a short time here, she had already been introduced to some curious spirits by their mage, the “augur” he had called himself. Solas had been fascinated to see a rather primitive and reclusive people embrace spirits so naturally. In fact, since the meeting with the augur, he had been uncharacteristically quiet, his brows pulled tightly and his lips a hard line.

“I am surprised that a mage comes to lead this Inquisition. The lowlanders have little love for spirit talkers.” Svarah noted as she leaned back to take in a good look at her. She was either a good deal older than Lissa, or had seen a great deal more battle. And considering her surroundings, Lissa thought either were possible, and perhaps both. Furs and skins draped her form and hooded her face, and now and then the flash of the fire lit the dark of her eyes hiding under the hood. It made for an intimidating effect, which Lissa supposed was the point. “You’re an awfully long way from your home, Lowlander. What brings you here?”

“Nothing hostile,” Lissa insisted, “but our mission does require us to traverse your land. We believe that hundreds of years ago the last Inquisitor died here. We are seeking his body.”

A smile gathered faint wrinkles in her leathery cheeks. “Granting peace to the dead is a noble cause, and we would offer any support we can. However, you should know the Jaws of Hakkon will offer no such assistance. When you entered our hold, you met their Thane, Gurd Harofsen. My scouts tell you have met their blades more than once on your way here. If you will continue your search here, they will continue to tax you in blood.”

Lissa crossed her arms and nodded. “Your scouts are correct. These Hakkonites have been vexing my soldiers continuously since we’ve arrived. Can you tell me more about them?”

“I could. There is a lot to tell. What would you know?”

Lissa shifted her weight between her heels, letting the grit crunch under her boots. “They are exceptionally violent, and attack even when unprovoked. What drives them to such anger?”

“Ah, to tell you this tale, you must first understand our gods. Bjorn Reed-Beard is strong in fishing. Rilla of the fireside is blessed with a fertile womb, and Sloka Riversmane keeps our herds stocked with milk. A wise man will respect the strength of each, and call on them when they are needed. But they care only for Hakkon Wintersbreath, the god of war and winter.”

“Is that why they are half naked even when it is snowing?” Varric asked, shaking his russet head.

Svarah laughed, and it was a hearty, rich sound. “Being naked is something reserved for great battles. There are few things more terrifying than a horde of angry foreigners coming at you with weapons and teeth bared - and everything else.”

“Impossible,” Cassandra breath with equal parts shock and awe.

Lissa forced a look of shock from her twisting her features. “Is that a joke, Svarah Sun-Hair?”

She cocked her head, a bemused smile pulling her chapped lips to the side. “You would know the truth of it were we Avvar to ever battle the Lowlanders. Pray such a day never comes.”

“I already have,” Varric mumbled from the rear.

Svarah grinned again before leaving forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “The Jaws of Hakkon wear traditional Avvar armor. It is a pitch of mud and slime that hardens and moves with the warrior. It will keep you warm in winter and cool in the heat of the summer sun. It is also the traditional attire of challengers of Hakkon’s trials.”

“Trials? What sort of trials?”

“Why, the only sort befitting the god of war. Battles of strength and tests of physical endurance. We do use blunted weapons, of course. No Thane wishes to lose their best warriors in matches of pride. Despite that, there have been times when not every party makes it out alive. Such is the will of Hakkon.”

“I don’t wish to presume upon you, Thane Sun-Hair, but is it possible you would help us battle these Hakkonites?”

Svarah’s voice began rich with war-pride, a lusty warmth deepening her tone. “To wet my blade in their blood would be cause for great feasting here in Stone-Bear Hold. But we cannot.”

Lissa frowned. “And why is that?”

“The Hakkonites may be fools, but we have pledged peace with them. We would be oath-breakers to change our words, especially alongside lowlanders. It is an ugly time to put that burden on my hold.”

Lissa’s eyes narrowed in thought. “And what would improve the time for your hold, Sun-hair?”

“It is a poor time because our hold beast is missing. Among the Avvar, a hold draws its strength from their beast. They are like kin to us. Our bear, Storvacker, has not been seen for days. This has the hold uneasy. Without Storvacker's return, I cannot ask the hold to break peace oaths.”

“Then it seems the solution is clear,” Solas broke his silence with a solemn determination. “If you wish the help of Stone-Bear hold, we must find their hold-beast.”

Lissa grinned, nodding in a half-bow to the Thane. “Then it seems we must go hunting for a bear.”

“Not a bear, Lowlander. Our hold-kin. You should ask around the hold. Perhaps outside questioning will jar stubborn memories from their heads.”

As they turned to leave, Lissa paused. “Oh, Svarah Sun-Hair, I had attempted to borrow a boat from the docks. I was told I had to acquire your permission.”

The Thane let out a sharp exclamation something between a laugh and a bark. “ _Bah_ , that Rolfsen. Always trembling over nothing like a baby goat. The boat is yours. Tell him I said so.”

 

The journey back towards the docks was mostly uneventful, and the companions hailed the man from earlier.

“If the Thane says ye’ can’ave it, then ‘tis yours. I only hope ye’ come back alive.”

“Thank you, Rolfsen. We will be back shortly,” Lissa insisted. They packed into the small boat and made for the small island. The tide was low and the water choppy. White, foamy spray was cast into the air with each crash against their small craft. Lissa squinted to make out the approaching island, but the only thing she could see was a large, indistinguishable mass. Solas seemed to sense it, and from his seat at the bow, relayed, “We are almost there.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth but Lissa felt a strange creeping across her skin that tugged on the mark in her palm.

A voice, otherworldly and resonant, seemed to fill her mind until even the scraping of the boat landing against the shore was muted.

“This blood . . . my blood?” the voice started, so fraught with distress that her own throat tightened. “No, I-I can’t . . . not without . . . “ the voice was strained against tears, and her eyes stung. Confusion warred with the voice as she reached to her eyes and found them weeping. She turned to her comrades, looking for help, but found only that they stared at her in equal parts fear and concern. Solas came rushing to help, and felt his hands grip her shoulders. She opened her mouth to ask for help, but the voice that answered was not hers, and the words not the ones she had been wanting.

This mysterious voice had overtaken her.


	38. Empathy

The small craft scraped against the pebble-strewn shore. Solas stepped out, a cautious gait to his steps. There was a strong presence of spirits here, and the veil was dangerously thin. The water lapped against the shore with an eerie hush, as if it too wished not to disturb anything. 

Almost instantly, the strained hush was shattered. Lissa’s voice echoed with a sound not her own, her eyes wide with panic. He rushed to her even as Cassandra drew her sword and Varric’s meaty hands reached for his crossbow. 

“Lissa? Lissa can you hear me?” His hands clutched her shoulders, and he resisted the urge to shake her to her senses. He pressed a hand to her cheek. Her skin was cold and clammy to the touch. 

“Is she possessed?” Cassandra asked from behind her sword, and he half rounded on her with a growl, his lips pulled back in a snarl. 

“I am not certain what is going on, but I am positive I can figure it out without resorting to violence.” 

Cassandra leveled an even, cool gaze at him, her sword wavering not at all. “My job is to protect the Inquisitor  _ and _ Thedas. I’m sure you can imagine the danger we would face should her mark fall into demon hands.” 

“I know the risks.” He turned back to Lissa, his jaw set. 

Her lips wavered, the strange voice surfacing again. “Not without . . .” 

“Without  _ what _ , Lissa?” he urged, his eyes searching hers for a sign. 

“Ameridan . . . Ameridan, why?” the voice in her asked. 

This made even the Seeker take a step back. “Did she say ‘Ameriden?’”

Varric shook his head, retreating a few paces. “Isn’t that the name of the dead guy we’re looking for? Why would she be calling for him?” 

“I do not know,” Solas admitted, his chest tightening. “But I believe it is some sort of reaction to the mark.” He held up her palm, and the green brand sputtered and sparked in uneven intervals. 

Lissa clutched him then, nails biting into his tunic. “No, no, no!” she all but wailed. Her face was twisted in agony, and her eyes pleaded with him. 

“Solas . . .” Cassandra warned, her sword a steadfast warning. 

“I  _ know _ , Seeker,” he barked, hands stroking her face. “What is it,  _ da’len _ ?” 

He should know what is happening. Of all the beings awake on this side in this wretched version of the world, he had the most experience, the most knowledge. So then why did he feel so lost? Was it simply that his worry over his vhenan was clouding his judgement? Had he allowed himself to become too attached to think clearly? The thought sent a shiver down his back. If he had, he would have to . . . 

“Vhenan . . .” the word brought his attention back to the present, but it was still not Lissa’s voice, exactly. “I - I’m dreaming. I must . . . I need . . .” 

“Is this . . . is this the Inquisitor, or . . . something else?” Varric asked, a waver obvious in his tone. 

“I need to sleep, to dream,” the voice in Lissa insisted. “If I sleep, I can find you . . .” The voice drifted away, and Lissa’s eyes began to flutter. All at once she dropped to the ground, and he barely caught her under the arms. 

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra shouted and was by their sides in a dash. 

“Lissa? Lissa, are you alright?” Solas looked her over, smoothed his palm over her pinched brow and slaked away the cool sweat. Beneath his hand, the delicate brush of fluttering lashes gave him hope. 

“V-vhenan?” she questioned, but the voice was her own. 

He shifted her, cradling her head and back as she came to. “Lissa, are you alright?” 

Her hand struggled to reach her head, and she moaned in answer. “I think so. I feel as I though I’ve had a dream, and yet I know I was not in the fade. But . . . but I was. I saw things.” 

The sound of boots shifting over loose grit betrayed Cassandra’s shift in her stance. “What sort of things?” she asked through thin lips, ever suspicious. 

“I . . . I saw a face. It was an elf. He,” she paused, clutching her head once more, “he had dark hair and vallaslin on his face. I feel so very cold and . . . “ she looked at him, eyes desperate for meaning, “so very sad.” 

He looked around the island and felt the energies around them. There was a sadness enveloping everything her, like a wet cloak, it hung dank and heavy. “The spirits gathered here were drawn by tragedy. They radiate it, as fire does heat.”

Lissa nodded, her eyes clearing understanding. “Yes, tragedy. There was a battle? A struggle,” she said with more certainty. Her hand slipped into his, and she nodded, putting her legs beneath her. With his help, she stood, and the color slowly seeped back into her cheeks. 

Cassandra sheathed her sword, apparently now convinced that there were no immediate threats. Varric sighed in shared relief, but he notably did not put away his beloved crossbow. The dwarf looked around, peering into the mist that shrouded the small island. “I don’t like it here,” he insisted. “Let’s find what we came for and get the hell out. It’s just too . . . wet.” 

Lissa moved to take a step away from him, but his hand clung to hers. She turned, looking over her shoulder and gave a gentle grin before squeezing his hand and slipping away. No sooner had she turned away then the sombre look returned to her gaze. “Yes, Varric. It is almost as if the ground were soaked in tears . . .” she distantly commented. 

Varric looked at her with curled lips. “That’s not helping, Shortcake.” 

Her steps continued eastward, until she slipped into the fog as if still waking from a dream. Varric sighed and shook his head. “Now where is she going?” 

His eyes narrowed as he peered into the fog, and he made determined steps to reach her. “I do not know, Varric.” Solas clutched his staff as a walking stick and stalked after her. “But I wish to find out.”

He quicked his steps, ignoring the bits of sharp rock that occasionally jutted into his soles. He caught up with her and slowed his steps, watching her intently. 

“Do you feel that, Solas?” 

His brows furrowed. There were many unusual things he sensed here with his abilities, but he dare let her know. “What is it?”

“It feels like a rift. I can feel it in my palm. But it’s . . . different. It’s dull, like an old pain.” She turned slowly towards him, her eyes full of intent. When she spoke, her voice was a hushed whisper. “And I hear voices.” 

“A rift?” A tear in the veil? He bent his head as he considered it. Yes, that would explain the odd phenomena taking place. The large congregation of spirits, the pull to the Dreaming, the spirit attempting to communicate, the resonate magic within her mark . . . but why did the spirit reach out to her instead of him? And why could he not sense this rift earlier through her mark -  _ his _ magic?

Just beyond the veil of grey mist rested an old, disheveled shack crumbled atop a small hill. And nestled in the middle of it were the swirling green wisps of magic of a rift. 

“It feels different. It’s not the same as the others,” Lissa noted. 

“No. This rift is ancient.” He bent closer to it, studying the magic that swirled within it. “I may have been caused by the battle here, not the Breach.” This was different. This tiny tear in the Fade was not jagged and angry, spitting out vitriol and demons with every belch. It’s edges had been worn smooth with time. A long time, he noted, at least for mortals. He reached out, slipping his fingers into the stream. 

All at once his mind was filled with visions. They were disorganized, jumbled, and fragmented. Chantry Sisters burning entire library's worth of books in secret, Templars breaking stained window panes, a hand taking a knife to a delicate tapestry. Visions of wars, of death and despair, raged on in his mind and as quickly as they had appeared, they ceased. 

He pulled back his hand as if bitten, and noticed Lissa clutching her palm to her chest as she wrestled a confused expression. 

“Vhenan?” 

“Did . . . did you see that?” she asked timidly, staring at the rift with newfound wonderment and horror. 

“I did, but I do not yet know what it means.” What he said was not a lie. He was not certain as to what all these images pieced together were supposed to communicate, but he did know that they were pieces of history, memories bleeding through the Fade, attracted to the event that happened here. But why? 

“I think it is important that I figure out the connection, but I need to close this rift. I’m afraid it might happen again if I reach out to it.” Lissa turned, slowly dragging her eyes from each companion until they rested pleadingly on his gaze. He nodded to her silent question. 

She took a deep breath and outstretched her arms. Solas waited, staff in hand, for the predictable flood of demons. The air changed and the energies around the rift sprang to life as she called on the mark to close the tear.    
  
As the arc of magic leapt from her palm and connected with the swirling green dome, Lissa’s golden eyes flashed green with energy. 

“Lissa?”

She turned towards him slowly, and looked down at her hands as if they were not her own. “Lissa? Yes. And no. Telana slept . . . I slept.” 

“Telana?” Varric asked, crooked nose wrinkling. “That sounds familiar.” 

“It is the name of Ameridan’s rumored elven mistress, although her existence has been stricken from any official records.” Cassandra filled in, her gauntleted hand resting on her hilt.  

“I only wanted to find him,” the voice spoke through Lissa’s form. “I searched the Dreaming. But I . . . there was so much blood . . . I’m . . . she’s . . . gone.” 

“Then . . . you’re the spirit of Telana?” Varric asked, voice gossamer soft. 

Lissa turned her eerie gaze on Solas, her confident gaze seeming to be waiting for his input. 

“As she has already said, yes and no.” He crossed his arms, sizing up the situation before him. “Telana is dead, but this spirit was drawn from the Fade by this rift. It reflects to us her thoughts and actions. And it is also Lissa. This spirit’s nature must have resonated with Lissa’s.” 

“That is correct. This one . . . I . . . feel other’s pains and needs as my own. But I have been here for so long, waiting . . . and then I . . . she reached out to me, wanted to help.” Lissa turned towards Cassandra, a blank expression on her face. “Without her, my words would be fractured, too. I was . . . invited.” 

Cassandra scowled. “That is not encouraging.” 

“Then you are Empathy?” Solas guessed. “Or perhaps Understanding?” 

Lissa tilted her head, and her lips pulled to the side just so. “Yes. Either of those would do. I . . .  _ she _ came to understand, to sleep. She wanted to find Ameridan, one more time. But she couldn’t. I couldn’t. She died.” 

“And you tried to help her?” 

She nodded. “I did. But she tried to stay, and only pieces of her will remained. When you opened the Sky, the rest of me - her - fell through. The visions are making more sense now.”

Cassandra dared to inch closer to him, her voice hard-edged. “We’re trying to find Ameridan as well. Can it help us?” 

Solas neared the human woman, reaching out for Lissa’s hand. “The Seeker speaks truth. We wish to find Ameridan. He has been missing, and we would lay him to rest.” 

Lissa’s eyes flared briefly, her mouth parted in shock. “He’s . . . no! My beloved . . .” 

It stung to see her lips move those words in regards to another. For a moment, Lissa seemed to war within herself against the spirit until her expression was safely neutral once again. 

“I . . . she . . . came with him, with Ameridan, to hunt the dragon.” 

Cassandra leaned closer, eyes narrowed on her. “A dragon? What sort of dragon?”

“It was . . . huge,” she confessed simply with a shrug, as if words failed her. “It had power none had seen. Some looked to it as a god. It came from the mountains, with the Avvar in its shadow.”

Solas felt his pulse skip beneath his chest _. Could it be . . . ? No _ , he assured himself, he mustn't make assumptions yet. There were many great dragons in the Divine Age, and peoples like the Avvar often looked to powerful, uncontrollable beings as gods. It was not necessarily one of  _ them _ . 

“It was to be one last favor for Emperor Drakon. Slay the Avvar-dragon. Save Orlais.” 

“What?” Cassandra barked, nearing Lissa and Empathy. “If Inquisitor Ameridan died saving Orlais from a dragon . . .” She shook her head, her expression equally crestfallen and stern. “Just another thing the Chantry conveniently forgot.” 

Lissa crossed her arms. “No, not forgotten. Forbidden. Everyone was afraid. There were Darkspawn in the north, covering the land. If anyone knew, it would destroy everything he had worked so hard for. Orlais had to remain strong, unstained. ‘Please, friend. For both our Peoples.’” 

Lissa’s gaze fell, her brows cinched tightly. Her hand reached out to him to steady herself, and he was supporting her in an instant. “There was so much fighting.” Her voice was strained, hinged on the edge of tears. “Blood staining the shore. There was chaos, spirits and magic and . . . cold. So, so  _ cold.  _ It was how I found her. How she found us.” She looked up, golden eyes alight with memory. “They . . . they were here. They stopped to rest her, then there. There are . . . “ her eyes narrowed, as if studying a vision, “metal spires. Up the river. There was someway to stop the dragon . . . oh!” It was Lissa’s voice that broke through at last as she lost the strength in her legs. 

The trio rushed towards her, but he had already caught her, steadying her gently in the crook of his arm. His free hand cupped her cheek. Her skin was cool and clammy to the touch. A subtle twitch in her eyelids betrayed a headache as did the stubborn set of her jaw. 

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra asked, inching forward.

“Inquisitor?” she echoed weakly, her voice still mixed with Empathy. “Yes, yes! The Inquisitor, Ameridan. Telana - she came her to wait for him, to sleep and wait. She would dream forever fo find him and then . . .” Her expression fell, a shadow passing over her features. “. . . dead.”

“You need not worry. We will find Ameridan. You needn’t linger here any longer,” Solas assured, tenderly brushing a stray copper curl from her face. 

Her face softened with relief, and one hand reached up to caress his cheek. “Thank you. I cannot tell you how hard it was, waiting all these years without my  _ vhenan _ , constantly searching and slowly breaking apart - watching as she broke apart.” Her thumb traced the curve of his cheekbone, and strange eyes set in a familiar face studied him. “This one hurts, too. So many pains. Her people . . . they need her.”

He kept his expression neutral even though his heart leapt within his chest. ‘Her People?’ Did it mean Mythal?  _ His _ People? Was this spirit searching out his feelings, or Lissa’s? 

“This one waits - will wait - as I did. Searching, always searching. Content to dream, to sleep, to search and wait, always waiting. This one will be alone. Will this one find their  _ vhenan? _ ” The question seemed to bother the spirit deeply as it held his gaze, intent to have an answer. 

“I will find the Inquisitor,” he answered truthfully, though his words held intended double meaning. 

“I - she left a long time ago. I stayed because she asked.” A weary hand waved to the corner where a pile of flowers grew in a heap. Poking through the tall, flowering grasses were the sun-whitened bones of what he now knew to be Telana.  “Her belongings remain. She wished for them to be found.” 

Solas nodded and reassured her with a grin. “Then we will see to it. Rest, friend.” 

“Thank you,” she breathed again, letting her hand slip from his face. “It was hard.” 

All at once, Lissa went slack, and he eased her to the damp ground. 

“Lissa? Lissa, can you hear me?” He urged, gently shaking her. In his mind, he reached out to the energies around him, but even the sense of her mana was dangerously low. Her chest did not rise and fall, and he pressed his fingers against the soft flesh of her wrist, the pulse there was weak. He knew that at times well-meaning mages had allowed a dying spirit to indwell them and in exchange had their own soul extinguished or forced out. Had Lissa been that weak? Surely that fragment of a spirit could not have drained her. Perhaps it was because of the mark -  _ his _ magic -  was already straining her beyond mortal limits? He clutched her shoulders, staring at the lifeless face before him. “Lissa?  _ Vhenan? _ ” His voice was a quiet plea. For a long moment, he could not get his lungs to breathe as his entire body tightened in anticipation, waiting in painful tension for the moment she breathed again. 

Agonizing moments passed, and his lungs burned with need of air, but it did not compare to the twisting behind his chest that gripped his heart with each stabbing second she did not breath. 

She gasped, and he felt his heart surge to life once more, filling his veins with hot, ready blood. “Lissa!  _ Ea son, vhenan? _ ”

He watched, helpless, as she choked over the air rushing into her once stilled lungs. He did the only thing he could; he held firmly in silent reassurance that she was not alone. But suddenly, the voice of Empathy echoed in his mind, more haunting than it had been over his lover’s lips. 

_ “This one will be alone.”  _

The final sputters and wracks died away until she drank in one deep gasp of air. When at last she spoke, her voice was hoarse and weak. 

“I . . . I think I’m alright.” She made to sit up, and he was near her the entire time, trying to mentally coax his fluttering pulse into a calm state. “I . . . I have never experienced anything like that.” 

Despite himself, he laughed. Her innocence was refreshing but more than that, he could not describe the sense of relief he felt just to see her whole. And yet, at the darker parts of his mind, he could not help but see her hurting on her own, alone. His gaze softened as he took her in, and forced his mind to focus on the present. “No doubt, da’len. I am glad you are well.” 

“No shit, Chuckles,” Varric breathed, letting his shoulders droop as he sighed. “Listen, Shortcake, you gave us a real scare.” 

“We thought you were possessed,” Cassandra stated ever so succintly. 

It was Lissa’s turn to offer a weak grin. “I heard - felt - it asking for help. I could feel what it was feeling, and I wanted to do something. Before I knew it, I suddenly felt  _ everything _ .” She shifted her legs beneath her, letting her eyes rest on the skeleton. “Those visions make sense now. We saw what Telana, and this spirit, had seen throughout the years. Telana loved Ameridan, and when she couldn’t find him, she came here, to a safe place to sleep. It was something called ‘uthenera.’ I know I’ve heard it before. Solas?” 

He considered her question, wondering just how much he could share before she worked it out. She had already come far to near the truth on many occasions. The delicate balance of speaking truth, but only part of it, was a challenge. But he would not deny that he enjoyed it. “The Dalish claim that in the time of Elvenan, uthenera was viewed as an act of reverence. An elder would retire to a chamber that was a bed, and also a tomb, to great ceremony from all the extended family. There they would succumb to slumber. The family would continue to visit the chamber to pay respect to the one who made such a noble sacrifice.” 

Her eyes held his for a long while, and he knew she was meticulously picking apart his answer. Eventually, she titled her head as she often did when she was about to ask another question. 

“That’s very interesting,” she offered instead, leaving her gaze on him for a moment more. 

And she said nothing further. 


	39. To Be Judged Worthy

“Curious, questioning, caught in the bright light. They surround you, staring. Can’t ignore,” Cole added, suddenly appearing next to her. 

Lissa grinned, finishing the last few weaves in her thick braid. “Do you mean the spirits here, Cole? The ones that appeared when we visited the Augur?” Braid completed, she flipped it over her shoulder to hang heavily down the center of her back. 

He nodded. “Yes. They watch you, following you through the Fade, hand too bright.”

She turned, tossing a dried leaf into the fire and watched as Cole sat on the overturned log, wiggling his feet much like a child in thought. “Is it really so bright?” she wondered aloud, turning over her hand to start at the brand she had become so accustomed to seeing. 

“Yes, and no. From far away, it is like a glimmer, but once you look at it, it becomes brighter, like a pinhole in a cloth held up to the sun.” He met her eyes from under shaggy blond locks. “They like to look at it.” 

She grinned. “Yes, I imagine that there hasn’t been anything like this before.” 

“It is new, but also old. It makes them curious.” 

_ Old? _ Perhaps it was the influence of Corypheus’ power, or perhaps due to the ancient orb that she had touched. “Do you know why the spirits here seem to be more . . . interactive with us?” She hooked one foot under as she rummaged through her pouch, pulling out a thick slice of dried meat, holding it near the fire to warm it just a bit. “Usually, people avoid spirits, at least, those they are aware of. But here they practically worship them as gods.” 

“They do not fear them,” he answered simply. “And they are sought after, valued, but never taken.” 

She tilted her head, tearing in the tough jerky with her teeth and chew considerably before swallowing it with a grimace. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Taken? Do you mean summoned from the Fade? Or bound?” 

He nodded, narrowing his gaze on a small speck on the ground. Lissa could not make it out, but she imagined to be some interesting insect that had snagged his attention. “They want to be here, wanted. It is easy.” 

“Hmm.” The Avvar mages did not grow up with the cautionary tales of the Circle, and their people were familiar with spirits, but she had not sensed the demonic presence the Chantry would have had you believe would happen. Among the Avaar, there was a respect, deific reverence in many ways, towards spirits. And while she knew better than to deify them, the respect their culture had for them was admirable. She grinned. “It seems that in many ways these ‘barbarians’ have more wisdom than all of the educated Circles.” 

Suddenly, the log beneath her bumped and she turned, catching the last bit of Bull dropping himself heavily next to her. “So, you ready to impress these Avvar with the strength of the Inquisition?” He gave her an appraising tilt of his brows and a crooked smile. “I know I am looking forward to it.” 

She huffed. Just how many of their members had Cassandra told? “It wasn’t supposed to become an exhibition,” she mumbled, offering him the last half of her too-tough jerky. He gripped it in his meaty palm and tore off a hunk in his sharp teeth. 

“No?” he chewed loudly, smacking on the dried meat like chewing pipe weed. “Isn’t it in an arena? You don’t suppose they built those tiered ledges just for fun, do you?” 

“I meant it wasn’t supposed to be an exhibition for all of  _ you _ .” Just who would be attending to watch her compete in this match? “The Avvar have been tolerant of us, but if we wish to gain their trust, we have to earn their respect. So, I figured we should speak their language as it were.” 

He nodded. “Good thinking, Boss. So, when’s your first round?” 

She looked up, spying beyond their camp towards the outlying avvar hold and the sheer cliff face. She pointed. “When the shadow from that bolder reaches the top of that plateau. So, probably over an hour.” Her stomach did a small flip-flop at the thought. 

Bull nodded, resting his insightful gaze on her. “So what are the rules? How are you going to win?” 

Lissa chuckled. “I don’t plan on winning, Bull. I plan on making a good showing. So long as I don’t lose in the first few rounds, it will be considered a good run.”

“Aww, come on!” he urged, crossing his arms across his chest. “What sort of attitude is that? I’ve seen you fight. You don’t have brute strength, but you have a quick mind, and that magic of yours is clean, effective. You put your mind to it, you’d come out on top.” 

Lissa rose slowly, keeping her gaze on the distant, blurry shadow slowly rising to the top of the cliff face. She did not plan on winning, mostly because she did not want to disappoint anyone when she did not make it. And now more of her closest friends would be watching. A hard knot grew in the pit of her stomach. “Well, that’s no pressure, right?” she laughed nervously. 

“You know, I’ve had a look at that painted armor they wear. It may look primitive, but it reminds me of vitaar. Makes you look meaner, but actually provides decent protection. And it moves with you. That should give you an advantage with your magic. But remember, they’ll be moving faster than warriors in armor.” 

She nodded, taking his advice down mentally. With a tap to her chin, she questioned, “Is there a weakness to having this sort of armor? I mean, it looks basically like mud to me. How durable is it really?” 

“Don’t think of it is as armor. Think of it as a way to unsettle your enemy, give yourself a primal edge. It’s unnerving to see a horde of half-naked enemies come at you, yelling and unafraid to get themselves hurt a little - or a lot.” 

“Thane Sun-hair did mention something to that effect. So then it has no defensive properties at all?” 

He shrugged. “Not much. But the mud both insulates and keeps the skin cool. It’s most effective as an aid to endurance. And since these games aren’t about a fight to the death, you’re going to have to set your mind in for the long haul. You won’t get any mana potions during a match. And you’ll be fighting against seasoned warriors who are experienced in these games.” He narrowed his one eye on her. “You run out of mana, there won’t be a whole lot of help for you.” 

The knot in her stomach tightened. It was true, and that was the worst of it. “So I need to analyze a weakness and exploit it quickly each round, before I run out of mana.” 

He hummed thoughtfully. “That mud armor will hold up to cold pretty well, as do the Avvar. I’d stay clear of ice magic.” 

Lissa quirked a grin. “Mm, but a good storm - that could be effective. And I don’t think that mud would retain its flexibility once it's baked on.”

He grinned. “Now you’re thinking.” 

“Thanks, Bull.” 

“Anytime, Boss.” 

 

* * *

 

“This is, by far, the worst idea I have ever had.” Lissa stood in the challenger’s tent, looking down at her lower half covered in breeches and furs and feeling exceptionally exposed as she wore nothing but a pelt over her shoulders and mud in varying shades slathered across her bare skin. 

“Yes, it is.” Cassandra succinctly agreed. “It would be better if me or Bull were competing.”

Lissa raise a brow. “Oh? You would prefer to be out in the center of this entire hold in nothing but mud?”

She scoffed in the back of her throat. “Absolutely not. But at least I am more suited to taking a hit and dishing them out. And Bull is already half naked.”

Lissa laughed, sighing disparagingly as she fought the urge to itch as another layer of mud caked on. “Well, the Thane invited me to participate, one leader to another. Were I to decline, it would hurt the reputation of the Inquisition, not to mention Lowlanders as a whole.” 

“I know that,” she added, crossing her arms over her chest. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” 

Lissa took a deep a breath, centering her thoughts and focusing her will to a honed edge. If she were going to represent the Inquisition, represent her friends and comrades, she was going to need to be on her best. 

From outside the tent, the voices of excited Avvar swarmed near the arena, their voices buzzing with anticipation. Lissa felt her pulse begin to quicken, and she closed her eyes, reaching out to her mana and waiting until she felt the sudden  _ hook _ , the magic catching hold in her mind.  _ I can do this _ . 

Pushing back the tent flap and blinking back the sudden flare of setting sun, she approached, ceremonial offering in hand. 

“I wish to compete in the trials, and trust that this offering is accepted by your gods,” she bowed a bit at the waist, as she had observed the other contenders do, and presented the refined silverite and everite to the trainer. 

Arrken’s face split with delight, readily accepting the offering. “Oh, yes!” he bellowed, before sheepishly clearing his throat. “This will be a fight the gods will remember. Go, Marked One, and let us see how Hakkon weighs your efforts.” 

She took a deep breath and let her eyes meet with that of the Seeker’s. She swallowed, and nodded, and Cassandra sent her off with a brisque nod in return. “Maker go with you,” the warrior offered, and Lissa made for the small, rocky path along the back of the cliff and stepped into the waiting area, where two Avvar shut her in a tall stall. It was hard to hear over the pounding of her heart, but there seemed to be some sort of official words, and a roaring cheer that followed shook the walls. 

A stark silence suddenly blanketed the noise, and she outstretched her arms, adjusting her grip on her staff and feeling as the mana connected to the magic beyond her. She drew her thoughts into a needle-point focus, and waited at the door, knees bent and muscles primed for action. 

The door slowly creeped open, and before her lay the natural terrain of the arena. She could make out the line of a bridge going across the center, and just beyond, the glint of  _ something _ caught the light from the encircling torches. She reached out, encasing the shimmering offender in a pillar of ice before shattering it with an arc of lightning. Her opponent cried out, dropping to one knee as the smoke rolled off her shoulders. A thud split the wood of the door behind her, and Lissa brought up her barrier just in time to deflect the second, more accurate arrow. It glanced off her shoulder, and she felt the strike against her mind. She winced, but the barrier would remain for a bit longer. 

The dark was not kind on her weak eyes, and she knew these opponents would give her no quarter. Heart racing and mana surging beneath her skin, she grinned. She was used to that anyway. 

The archer was too slow to reach for another arrow, and before she had nocked it, Lissa had flames licking up the wood of her bow until they chewed through the gut strings, rendering it useless. She felt the next attacker before she saw him, and bent to narrowly avoid the hefty swing of the warrior. He swung left, then back, and she back stepped once, twice, before she saw the opening she wanted. At the backswing, she jabbed the butt of her staff onto his supporting foot and threw lightning from her palm wracking through his body. He screamed, unresponsive fingers dropping the heavy weapon before he shifted his weight forward, intent to throw himself on her if he could. She twirled as he lunged towards her, hitting him on the back of the head with her staff before he dropped to ground with a thud. 

She was too focused to hear the roar of cheers that started on her behalf. The space of two breaths filled her lungs as her sweat-cooled skin tingled with awareness, but too late. The bowless rogue had managed a quiet approach, landing a blow to the back of her head. Lissa stumbled, reeling back with her staff until she felt the solid resistance of a body and opened the pools of her mana into her, until she felt the electricity shake the rogue’s bones. As her smoldering frame slumped to the earth with a groan, Lissa paused, blinking back the sudden wash of dark in her eyes. 

_ I . . . I can’t see _ , she realized with gripping horror. A black curtain covered her eyes, as if black inked had been mixed into her vision. Only blurry points of light made it through, and she assumed they were the torches lining the stadium. 

“First round, Hakkon weighs the Inquisitor worthy!” 

A fresh wave of cheers and sporting jeers alike echoed through the arena. Lissa fought down the sudden surge of panic in her chest. Her lungs burned with effort, her muscles were primed with adrenaline, and her eyes . . . they felt nothing. She could feel nothing, and she was not even sure if she were blinking. She managed to compose herself, reaching out with her mana as she had done before and slowly stalked back into the waiting chamber and forced a neutral expression until she heard the door clap shut. 

_ Maker, what is going on? _ She dropped her staff, both hand reaching for her eyes. She rubbed and prodded, but nothing felt odd beneath her fingers. One hand rushed back to the throbbing patch on the back of her head, probing beneath the sweat-slick hair, but only tender spot with a slow seeping ooze of blood and sweat was to be found.  _ Why . . . why can’t I see? _

The telltale hush of a new round silenced the crowd. Her heart beat drummed in her ears, and the slow brush of wind wicked the sweat from her mud covered skin. She licked her lips. Her tongue caught the salt of sweat and the tang of blood. She shifted her stance, bending her knees and digging her heels into the earth, listening to the grind of the grit beneath her boots. The sound of her own breath was too loud, like an ill-timed whisper in a Chantry. She channeled her mana out before her, tentatively feeling the arena. She could already feel the additional strain of magic taking its toll on her energy. Her mark sputtered and crackled, and the pain returned with the dull tug of an old scar coming into feeling. Her lips tugged to one side, she blew a drop of sweat off the end of her nose. Well, this was suddenly a lot more interesting. 

The door creaked open, and she lunged into the arena. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! I've enjoyed so much getting to interact with new readers and loyal readers alike. Thank you for the insightful comments! (And even comments of just "YAY!!!" make my day, too!) 
> 
> In case you haven't heard, I'm co-authoring another fic with Lissa called, "Where We Shall Need No Glass." You can catch up here! http://archiveofourown.org/works/5765431/chapters/13285597
> 
> And stay tuned for our very fun, very pointless, but nonetheless AMAZING trash fic Nightclub AU where we dump all the things into one steamy but pithy work! And let me tell you, Nightclub!Solas and Nightclub!Cullen are two characters you are going to WANT to subscribe to. Mhmm. <3


	40. Gilden-Sight

Solas leaned forward, gripping his staff as he watched the match. She twisted and dodged, narrowly missing the edge of a knife in the back of her calf. His throat was tight, his chest heavy and locked, his breaths forcibly measured. Her mana felt strong, he noticed. But continuing to battle like this . . . he found it hard not to worry. 

“Come on, Boss!” Bull roared, fist pumping into the air. “You got this!” He sat back down on the wooden bench, sending a shock across the plank. He looked over one hulking shoulder at Solas and shrugged. “What? If they can shout for their men, we ought to cheer for her.”

“It’s not so different from the Grand Tourney,” Blackwall added, leaning forward to rest his hands on his knees. “What matters is that is important to the Avvar. Lissa understands that.”

Solas straightened, trying to sort his own thoughts on the matter. Was it really necessary to put the Inquisitor in a dangerous situation on account of someone else’s traditions? Would it warrant enough of a change in Avvar approval to be worth the risks? He tried to sort it out, to weigh the consequences in his mind, but the truth  _ felt _ very different. 

“It isn’t wrong,” a soft voice murmured beside him. Solas looked down to meet the gentle eyes of Cole looking up at him. “It is okay to feel.” 

He fought back the knee-jerk reaction to recoil and forced an even tone to his voice. “Cole, I understand it is your nature to help, but you should consider that there are some things with which you cannot assist.” 

The unique spirit did not seem deterred. “But it’s twisted, tangled, caught on an edge. An itching wound you continue to scratch and pick. If you would let it be, let it heal . . .” Solas straightened, turning his attention back on the arena. He heard Cole sigh from beside him. “It is okay to feel,” he repeated, much quieter this time, but he pushed the issue no more. 

He watched as a stealthy rogue circled, crouching up behind her. He felt a warning growing in his throat, but held it back, clutching his staff until his knuckles peaked with white. Lissa made to move, but too late; the rogue landed a blow to the back of her head. 

He felt his mana surge, a spell at the ready and his staff answered with a flare of light blooming at the tip. He was standing. When had he stood?

Lissa twirled, rounding on her assailant with a barrage of bolts that wracked the attacker’s bones until the rogue slumped harmlessly to the ground. 

The match ended with a flurry of cheers and raised hands. Solas permitted himself a quiet sigh and applauded lightly, carefully lowering himself down to the bench.  A touch of pride tugged his lips in a crooked smile. Lissa was one of the most resourceful mages he had met. Surely she would find a creative way to win this test of theirs. 

Suddenly, he felt a sharp dip in her mana. Her energy reached beyond her, spread out like searching fingers radiating from her.  _ But . . . why . . . _

“Dark, deep, and deadly,” Cole whispered beside him, “everything is dark.  _ Where are you? Are you there? _ ” 

At once, the noise of the crowd seemed dimmed, the only point of sound coming from the figure next to him. Solas’ gut twisted and he turned to Cole, measuring his tone with effort, but it was still too forced, too vulnerable. “Cole, are you sensing Lissa’s thoughts?” 

Cole nodded, drawing his knees up to him on the stone bench and rested his chin on his knees. “Yes. She is wondering, wandering, wishing the light would return. It is nothing but dark.” Cole turned his head, looking up at him from beneath his sandy-blonde strands. “She cannot see.” 

A weight dropped in his gut, and Solas turned his focus back to the arena. She was using her mana to sense around her, then.  _ But if she continues . . .  _ He swallowed past his dry throat and clutched the worn indentions of his staff. She would soon run out of mana, and without her sight or magic . . . He did not like the possibilities. 

The crowd hushed. The gates were shut, and each viewer leaned forward in anticipation, breath caught in waiting. The slow creak of the gate swinging open broke the silence, and it seemed as if the crowd breathed at once. A handful of Avvar warriors poured from their door, splitting up and sending the warriors into the center of the arena as the archers found their perches. 

A rogue made a slow crawl around the edges, keeping to the shadows and shrubs. The warriors paused, looking to their rogues and archers with a shrug. Where was the Inquisitor? Had she left her gate? With spider-like strides, the rogue crawled towards the Inquisitor’s gate. He paused. He peered into the entrance. 

He screamed. 

He clutched at his throat as if he were being choked, and all at once, he was lifted into the air and tossed into the center of the arena. The hulking warriors took a cautious step back, raising their weapons in preparation. And out from the gate poured a cloud, dark as ink, billowing out into the arena. The crowd murmured, anxious to know what was happening beneath the cover. Solas closed his eyes, sensing the magic brewing within the clouds. 

All at once, the cloud lit up from the center as bolts of lightning arced between the billowing black. A few shrieks of pain escaped the cloud. His heart pounded in his ears, and his skin tingled at the nearness of the electricity. 

The cloud swirled away, dissipating into mist. As the clouds faded into vapor, the crowd gasped and cheered. Each warrior was sprawled out on the ground, some still twitching. 

At the edge of the arena, a markswoman drew back her load, nocked her arrow, and let it fly. 

A too-familiar cry sounded, and his heart skipped.  _ No! _ The cry stopped short of his lips, lodged in his too tight throat. Suddenly, a bright green dome of swirling magic appeared. The energy was familiar, and he had seen this shape before.  _ But how--? _

At the center, Lissa clutched her marked arm near the shoulder, an arrow lodged between muscle and bone. Her good hand gripped near the wound, blood running over her fingers. Her eyes flashed, and he felt more than remembered this spell; it was the same fade-bending technique they had encountered near the rift where Telana died. Lissa’s marked hand sputtered and twitched as she called on the anchor to aid her, twisting the Fade to her will. 

The archer pulled back another arrow, and it flew true to its mark, but it bounced off the swirling construct harmlessly. The rogue slipped the bow across her body and reached for a knife in her boot, and rushed between the bushes towards the Inquisitor. 

Lissa’s head swiveled left and right, her stance wide and ready. But in those blank eyes, he saw fear. Her mana felt dangerously low, a flicker of flame struggling in a gust of wind. 

The rogue crept near, approaching the dome so stealthily it seemed Lissa could not hear her. Tentatively, the woman made to breach the dome, knife first. Lissa must have sensed it, for she wheeled towards her presence, and all at once, the dome pulsed. The rogue was sent flying backward, screaming as she went. The crowd gasped. Several stood to their feet. The archer landed too near the arena’s edge, skidding towards the sharp drop of the cliff. 

“Oh no.”

“She’s gonna fall!” 

“She won’t make it.”

“That’s the judgement of Hakkon it seems . . . .” 

The crowd watched, breaths frozen and hard, as the rogue clutched to the edge of the cliff. Solas’ gaze was fixed on Lissa, spinning around in search of the attacker. 

“Desperate, dangling, desiring to hear her voice. Senses the trouble. Where are you? I would help you. I would--” Cole suddenly froze, eyes wide, gaze locked onto the arena. 

“What?” Solas barked. “What is it, Cole?” he urged. 

“I can help.”

Solas frowned. “What do you mean?” 

“The voice. It is saying, ‘ _ I can help _ .’”  

Solas fixed his eyes on the arena, on his  _ vhenan _ , heart pounding as he desperately tried to fit the pieces together. What voice? Whose  _ voice? _

And then a presence caused his skin to prickle. A shiver darted down his spine.  _ I . . . I know this spirit _ . 

A strained hush washed across the crowd, and even burliest and loudest of the cheerers silenced in wonder. Tendrils of light swirled around Lissa, as if the wind has gained form and carried her towards the Avvar rogue. 

“The gods . . .”

“They favor her.”

Solas watched, eyes narrowing on the scene before him. That was no magical phenomena; the spirits were helping her. Bits of light caught up in the flow, and from the beings he sensed a flood of emotions. It was so fluid and natural, a shadow of times long since lost. Lissa’s steps became sure, solid, and behind her eyes radiated a subtle glow. She neared the ledge, reached down to the woman clinging on for life, and spoke. 

“I can help.” 

Solas felt his breath stall. It was Lissa’s voice, but it was mingled with another. A voice familiar. 

“Empathy,” Cole breathed with a smile, watching the scene unfold with approval in his gaze. 

Empathy? It had been the spirit that harbored Telana’s memories for so many years, the spirit that Lissa had granted harbor within her while they explored The Lady’s Rest. And now it seemed the spirit had returned, this time with aid. 

Lissa bent down, her movements strong and confident as if no injury had befallen her. She reached, clasping the woman around her wrist and pulled her from the ledge, setting her down gently on the solid ground. 

The Thane stood, transfixed by the scene, and a growing smile on her weathered face. “The Inquisitor has completed the trials, and Hakkon, and many other gods, have shown their favor!” The crowd stood to their feet, a deafening cheer of excitement echoed across their keep, and the floor rumbled with the stomps and jumps of a thousand cheering Avvar - and a few of their own as well. 

Solas’ gaze remained fixed on Lissa, ignoring the jostling and the bumps from the crowd around him, watching as she ministered to the woman before her. All at once, the eddy of spirits dissipated in a shimmer of light and gone was the glow behind her eyes. Lissa dropped to her knees, catching herself on the ground and timidly groping the earth beneath her with her good hand. 

It was such a simple thing for him to bend the Fade, to call it to open and shape reality to his will. In a moment, he was at her side, wrapping one arm around her back and aiding her to an upright position. “I am here,  _ vhenan _ ,” he soothed, pulling her towards him as if it would soothe the painful tightness in his chest. If seeing her like this had this much of an effect him, how could he . . . “Let me see your arm.” Tenderly, he examined the arrow wound. With a sigh of relief, he declared, “it seems to have exited cleanly. I should be able to heal this thoroughly. For now, I must stop the bleeding.” One hand administered ice magic to numb her arm while the other carefully applied heat to burn through the wood, searing off the arrow head cleanly. Lissa gritted her teeth, and Solas reached around his waist and retrieved his belt. “Bite down. This . . . will hurt.” She did, and in one swift pull, he drew the shaft from the wound. Lissa groaned in a muffled cry, but he forced it from his mind. He quickly wrapped it tightly to stem the bleeding and immediately ushered in healing magic. Once he was certain the blood flow had stemmed, he carefully took the belt from her lips. A tear had cut clean path through the dirt caked on her cheek. 

“You . . .” she paused, choking on the pain and forcing a chuckle, “you might be in need of a new belt.” 

“Nonsense. Teeth marks are very fashionable in Orlais these days.” 

“Knowing the Orlesians, you might actually start a trend.” 

He grinned, bottling down the strong reactions that stirred within him at seeing her in pain. “The bleeding has stopped, but I will need to do further healing back at camp.” 

“Thank you, Solas,” she grinned wearily, clutching to his arm and bunching up his robes in her fingers as she supported herself against him. “I . . . I seem to be having a problem with my eyes,” she admitted raggedly. The pain in her voice tugged at his chest, and he drew her closer to his side. “Would you help me back to camp?” 

“Of course,” he answered, supporting her against him. “We will leave immediately.” 

Lissa chuckled, matted hair clumping in the gummy wound at the back of her head. “It’s alright, Solas. You don’t have to worry so much. I’ll be okay.” 

_ She _ was consoling  _ him? _ “ _ Da’len _ , perhaps your head was hit too hard, but it is you who is injured, not me.” He grinned. 

She replied with utmost conviction, her tone unwavering and compassion in her battered face. “You care _so_ _much_ , Solas. I think of it as one of your defining qualities. I’ve never seen you turn a blind eye to someone in need.” She squeezed in arm to make a point. “Perhaps that is why you and Cole get along so well.” She grinned, and the split in her lip began to slowly weep fresh blood. 

“Let us get you back to camp,” he insisted, carefully guiding her out of the arena. He watched for every stone or stick, anticipated every step, to ease her from the fighting grounds as delicately as he could manage. 

At the exit gate, Thane Sun-Hair waited, arms crossed and an approving smile gathering the weathered wrinkles on her face. “Well done, Lowlander,” she praised, regard in her tone. “You are not as soft as you first appear. Hakkon has judged you well. And the gods publicly give you aid. It may not have significance to you or your people, but to us, it is an act worth remembering.” She stepped forward, placed a hand on Lissa’s good shoulder, and turned to face the crowd. 

“Let it be known that Thane Sun-Hair recognizes a legendmark! This Lowlander shall be called ‘Gilden-Sight,’ for the gods shone through her eyes.” 

A resounding cheer broke out from the watching tribe. Lissa insisted on only holding his hand for guidance, straightening her posture as she walked out among the congratulatory throng. 

“An honor, Lowlander.” 

“The best Trial we’ve seen in an age!” 

“Thank you for letting us be witness to your legendmark, Gilden-sight.” 

With each greeting, each forceful pat on the shoulder or loud accolade, he felt her tense beneath him. But she graciously acknowledged each until they were on outskirts of their hold. It was only then when he felt her knees buckle. He caught her, letting her put her weight against him. 

“Thank you, Solas,” she managed. The grin on her face faded away, replaced with a tired wince of pain. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” 

“Oh, I disagree, da’len,” he murmured, hoisting her upright and helping her onto one of the hart mounts. He placed her useful arm around the hart’s neck before hiking one leg and settling in on the saddle behind her. Reaching around her for the reigns, he murmured, “hold on,” as he adjusted his pack and their staves. “You show a cleverness and insight I have not witnessed in your kind. You make friends with spirits, and it they acknowledge it in return. I foresee very little you could not accomplishment without my help.” 

She shook her head, the weariness in her frame evident even in the tired chuckle she humored. “Solas, you could just say ‘you’re welcome.’” 

He grinned, leaning to press a kiss behind her ear. “You’re welcome,  _ vhenan _ .” 

“You two lovebirds weren’t about to play hookie on us, were you?” Bull chided, stepping near their mount with his meaty arms crossed about his bare chest. “They’re just now starting to serve the alcohol. Seems they thought the match was deserving of the good stuff.” 

“The Herald is in need of healing,” he quipped too sharply, arms tightening on the reigns. Was he really suggesting she partake in their revelry when she could not even see? “I am taking her back to camp immediately.”

Bull raised an eyebrow, and Solas felt an ire stir in his chest. “Healing. So that’s what the young kids are calling it these days.” 

Solas opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by Lissa’s muffled chuckle. “Thanks, Bull. I love you, too.” 

Bull nodded, offering a quick salute before turning towards the well-lit hold. “Rest up, Boss.” He shot a quick parting look at Solas and lowly urged, “Take care of her, Solas. For all of us.” 

Solas nodded, and watched as Bull’s bulky frame retreated towards the glowing hold. And with a click of his tongue and a forceful nudge of his heel, he urged the hart to make for camp. 

 

“Here, let me help you,” Solas insisted, reaching up aid her dismount. She slid into his arms, and though it was indulgent, he held her against him for a moment, studying the blank stare that looked back at him as he clutched her soft frame beneath him. “How are you feeling?” 

“I’ve been better,” she admitted, a half smile, half wince bunching her features. 

He knew the answer before he asked, but he needed to hear it from her. “And how are your eyes?” 

He brows furrowed, her fingers clutching his forearms. “I . . . I still cannot see.” 

“Then come,” he turned, ushering her carefully from the small of her back. “Perhaps I can determine what has caused this.” He parted the tent flap, and gently guided her to the edge of her sleeping mat, aiding her as she lowered herself. “How do you feel?” 

She hummed in thought, wincing as he began to part the blood-matted hair to examine her injury. “Tired, mostly. Drained, as if all the magic in me was burned up all at once.” 

He fingered around the edges of the wounds on her head and her shoulder, assessing the damage. “That is not too far off an estimation from what I witnessed. The moment you lost your vision, you consumed nearly all of your mana. Beyond that, you used the mark to aid you.” He sighed, twisting her hair and draping it her right shoulder. “Please, hold that.” She did as he asked without complaint. “It is a wonder you are still conscious.” 

He rummaged through his rucksack, procuring several items and setting them neatly next to him. From his hip, he retrieved the bladder and carefully poured fresh water onto a clean rag. “This will probably hurt.” 

She nodded, and he carefully cleaned the head wound, ushering healing magic into each tender stroke. She hissed, but otherwise made no objections. With his care, the wound had knitted itself together and pink, new skin enclosed the injury. He reached for a small leather satchel and took out a handful of the dried herbs he had gathered. With calculating care, he measured out the remedy and dropped it into the carved mortar and carefully crushed it with the worn wooden pestle. 

“I love listening to you work.” 

Solas looked up from his task to find her sitting patiently, eyes gently closed and little curve of a grin on her lips. Behind the bruises and the scratches and blood stains on her face, she seemed almost at peace. 

“And why is that,  _ da’len? _ ” he humored her, setting his attention back to his poultice. 

He could tell by the tone of her voice that her smile had widened. “Because you are so exacting and precise. You are efficient when necessary, and yet you have such an artful touch.” She chuckled. “I bet right now the little wrinkles are bunched at the corners of your eyes. And that little scar on your forehead is making a tug on the furrows on your brow.” A low, pitiful sound was caught in her throat, and her chest bucked as she held back sobs. “I-I wish I could see it.” 

His heart twisted in his chest and he abandoned his work, reaching instead to cup her face in his hands. He pressed a kiss to each corner of her lips, and she tasted of salt and blood. “Hush,  _ da’len _ .  _ Ha’mi’in _ .  I’m here.” 

“I-I’m sorry,” she managed, sucking a slow, measured breath. “I’ll be alright.” 

A warmth, tender and strong, bloomed in his chest. He brushed his thumb over her cheek. “ _ Vhenan _ , you do not have to be strong for me.”

Her lips quivered, and she drew her lower lip between her teeth to stave off another wave of sobs. “I . . . I just . . . I’m such a burden, Solas,” she spat. Hot tears rolled over his fingers cupping her cheek. And in weak honesty, she murmured. “You deserve better.” 

He paused, searching the wounded, frail stare that met him blankly. She was injured and tired, he knew. And facing her greatest fear on top of it. But it was the raw truth in her tone that pained him most. 

“What I deserve . . .” His tone was dull, his chest heavy. What he deserved? What he  _ deserved? _ How could it be that the one person his mistake had most injured would be the one brilliant point in his dim reality? How could it be that a mortal could turn his mistake into the one saving grace the world had? She could not guess the punishment he deserved. “There are many things I do not deserve. I do not deserve the chance to watch you learn and grow and be taught in return. I do not deserve to be called ‘friend.’ And, of  _ all _ things,” try as he might, he could not hold back the straining sounds of emotions from filtering into his tone, “I count myself most undeserving of your love.” 

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her lips, and she met it in return, choked sobs muffled behind her lips. 

And he simply kissed her, as his hands so carefully cradled her face, again and again. Gentle, chaste presses of his lips against hers, willing that she could understand how much she meant in each one. Finally, as their lips mets again, he felt a smile pull her lips beneath his. 

“Thank you, Solas.” 

“No,” he insisted softly, pressing one final kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Thank you,  _ vhenan _ . Now, perhaps I can get back to healing you?” 

She chuckled, reaching up with her good hand to smudge the tears into the dirt on her face. “I thought that’s what you were doing.” 

He permitted a grin to thin his lips as he reached for the bladder. Using magic, he carefully heated the water before mixing it with the crushed herbs into a paste. The scent, a mix of sweet and bitter, filled the tent as the heat drew out the oils. He heard Lissa take a deep breath next to him and sigh. 

“Nothing quite like a Thedosian poultice,” she chuckled. “And that smells nothing like a Thedosian poultice. What in Thedas did you mix?” She asked with a wrinkled nose and curious dip in her brows. 

“A mixture of herbs known for their healing properties. I watched healers of old use this recipe in memories of the Fade. Please, hold still.” 

Poultices applied over the clean skin and all immediate bleeding stop, he assessed her in more detail. “Hmm,” he mused allowed, letting his eyes roam her form. 

“What?”

“I cannot believe you actually went out in public covered in nothing but mud.” 

She blushed and shifted the weight in her hips as she nibbled on her lower lip. “It was to honor their traditions, Solas.  _ Maker! _ ” She chuckled, swatting away his hand as soon as she felt it on her hips. 

He chuckled, a low rumbling in his chest. “Well, be that as it may, I cannot permit you to go to sleep in my tent covered in dirt.”

He watched the subtle shift in her eyes, the little pull of her lips, and the slow coloring of her cheeks. 

“I . . . suppose I will have to bathe, then.” She swallowed, titling her head as if she could hear his reaction. “Although, with my arm and eyes in this condition . . . .”

He leaned closer to her ear, letting his voice be low enough to rumble in his chest. “Are you asking me to help you bathe,  _ vhenan? _ ” 

It was simply another underserved pleasure to watch her skin react to his voice, to watch the prickles of goosebumps crawl across her skin, and to see the flush that bloomed across her cheeks. 

“I . . . .”

He pressed a gentle kiss to her temple and grinned. “I will help you bathe, but that is all. I would see you well as quickly as possible. Your body needs rest.” He tucked a copper curl behind one ear and trailed his finger down her jaw. “Your spirit however . . . .” He grinned, pushing himself from the bed roll and pausing at the tent flap. “Perhaps if you feel so inclined, I shall find you in your dreams.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for sticking with me!!! <3 I know updates have been slow, but life has been so crazy. Even today i had to rush my dog to the animal hospital while I'm recovering from bronchitis. (He'll be fine with rest and medicine.) This story MUST go on. :) Thank you for enjoying it along with me!


	41. Things Unseen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient with me! I've been fostering a 10 month old off and on for almost all ten months, on top of my other employment. It has been a challenge to sit down and write, but I truly thank you for all of your comments! They give me such encouragement to take the time to tell the story of Lissa, and it means so much to me that you enjoy it. <333
> 
> Thank you to Heathwind on tumblr for this beauuuuutiful image!!! It makes me so happy!!!

Lissa leaned against the trunk of an old oak, feeling the bark rub against her tunic as she wriggled to settle in the perfect spot. The dappled sun was warm against her cheeks, and the shade was cool, the grass and leaves beneath her chilled. The branches were getting more bare as of late, and at night the cold was sharpening. It was becoming winter in Skyhold, and it was the perfect time for reflecting. 

 

It had been surreal meeting Ameridan, and difficult as well to learn of yet another way that history had been twisted, sacrificing truth for temporary power. 

 

_ “Inquisitor,” Lissa gasped, slowly ascending the stone staircase that levitated to where the man stood. A man, and an Elf, she noted.  _

 

_ He took her in carefully with a wise, sharp gaze. A hint of a grin pulled on his lips. “Inquisitor,” he replied, tone rueful. “How fares my friend, Drakon? Has he spread the Chant to the whole world, yet?”  _

 

_ Lissa paused in her ascent, her heart twisting in her chest. Should she disclose the evils of the Chantry to someone who fought so hard for its namesake? Did he deserve the pain that came with knowing that the leaders of the belief he still held had abandoned him, trying to erase his features from time?  _

 

_ No, he did not deserve that pain. But he did deserve the truth.  _

 

_ “Inquisitor Ameridan,” she offered with a courteous bow, “you disappeared in 1:20 Divine. It was near the time of the signing of the Nevarran Accord . . . .”  _

 

_ His eyes narrowed. “Why does it sound as if . . . “ He paused, dropping his head for a moment. “Ah.” His shoulders slumped, but when looked back at her, his piercing green eyes held a resigned determination. “How long?”  _

 

_ Lissa swallowed. “Before me, there hasn’t been another Inquisitor for . . . eight hundred years.”  _

 

_ He shook his head. “I don’t understand. Drakon was my closest friend. Surely he - he would have sent someone to find me.”  _

 

_ “The Darkspawn took over everything and -” she took a deep breath. “I’m truly sorry.”  _

 

_ “It is not your doing. But . . .  Telana. She escaped the battle. Does - does history record what became of her?”  _

 

_ “Written history makes little mention of her, but her spirit held on. I met a spirit on the island. Her message was preserved in dreaming even though her body had long past. She loves you, and looks forward to being reunited with you soon.”  _

 

_ He shook his head and sighed. “Oh, Telana.”  _

  
  


Inquisitor Ameridan’s heritage was not the only thing history had erased; he was also a mage. It still hurt her to know what had happened to him. Was not even history sacred? Was there nothing those that desired power would defile for their own purposes?

 

The more that she discovered and experienced made her both love and loath the fate the Maker carved out for her when she stumbled into that room, branding her. Her fingers traced the outline of the mark as she pondered it. She had learned of so much hate and ugliness in the world. It was not just in the Circles that bred contempt. It was everywhere. Dalish feared and hated “shems,” Fereldans feared and hated the mysterious Tevinters, and even some of her own company hated spirits, simply because they were unfamiliar. Lissa found it hard herself not to default to feelings of fear as she journeyed deeper and deeper into the Fade. It was a challenge not to draw back from everything unknown, for fear it might be a demon. 

She smiled. Of course, without the mark, she would not have met the wonderful people she called friends. Cole would never have opened her mind to the possibilities, learning and teaching in his own unique way. She could not have understood so keenly the struggle of the Templars until she’d listened to Cullen. And of course, Solas. The simple thought of him stirred an ever-present warmth in her chest to fluttering. Yes, despite the ugliness she saw and experienced in the world, she had made many good friends along the way. But they were more than that to her; they were her family. And Skyhold was her home. Her fingers plucked at the thin strands of grass beneath her. She only wished she knew better how to fit into a family.

 

Dry leaves tumbled over the shrinking, brown patch of grass. With little more than a whisper, she felt a presence at her side. 

 

“Family, friendly, foreign. You fear failing them.”

 

Lissa let her head fall back against the trunk, ignoring how the bark grabbed at her hair. She had long since gotten used to Cole’s introspective interjections. 

 

“I do, I suppose. I care for them all very much, and the thought of letting them down worries me.”

 

He tilted his head. “How would you let them down?” His tone genuinely curious. 

 

“I don’t know, really,” she admitted with a shrug. “It’s just that I’ve never had a normal family, at least not for a very long time.” Her chest tightened a bit. It felt silly that the memory of being taken away from her home, her parents, her brother was still tender. 

 

“ _ I want them safe, but I don’t want to leave. Did they remember my birthday?”  _

 

Her eye twitched in a half-hearted wince, the thought so worried smooth that it hardly stung anymore. “Yes, I used to wonder if they thought about me much. It seemed so unfair, since all that I could do was think of them.”

 

“ _ How could this happen? It would destroy my family. No, no, no one must know.  _ And then no one could look away. And you were hidden away, covered, collected. She was scared when you were bright again.” 

 

She let his words play over again in her mind, piecing them together as best she could. “She . . . Do you mean my mother?” She questioned gently, rolling a piece of dried grass between her fingers. “How can you sense her thoughts? She’s nowhere near Skyhold.”

 

“Your pain touches each other, tangled, tying. It was easy.”

 

“I see.” So her mother had been worried about her being a mage for the sake of the Trevelyan name? Their ties to the Chantry were so strong, it made sense. But then, why would she be scared when she was ‘bright again?’ Wouldn’t be in the Trevelyan’s favor that their daughter was the ‘Herald of Andraste?’ In fact, aside from very local power struggles, she was surprised to note that her immediate family had not used her fame to secure even more power. It was just the sort of thing her mother would have been waiting on. Her mage daughter’s ‘redemption’ she had called it. 

Cole was restless beside her. “The magic wasn’t the secret. Magic was . . . The savior. No one would notice if you were in the Circle.” 

 

Perhaps it was her strained eyes, or maybe it was trying to decrypt Cole’s speech, but her head began to the throb. “I’m sorry, Cole. I don’t really understand.”

 

His hand, cool and rough, gripped hers, tracing the lines in her palm. “You are . . . Unsettled.  _ Who am I?  _ Herald? Trevelyan? The question haunts and hurts. But she knows.” 

 

She sighed and shook her head. ‘She?’ Her mother? Or was he talking about her again? He must have sensed that was too tired for more riddles. His hand still over hers and she clung to it tightly. “I think it’s time for me to retire for the evening. Would you mind?” 

  
With one hand between her shoulder blades and the other tightly in hers, he helped her stand aright. “Thank you, Cole,” she offered with a grin, slowing hooking her arm around his, and Cole patiently guided her back towards the entrance. She followed in silence, enjoying the brief patches of warm she as was led through the courtyard and back to the keep, sightless. 


	42. Puzzling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your patience! I finally have the time and courage to get this moving again, and hope to be able to make it through the part I've been dreading. (Ya know, the part that comes directly after the Temple???) Thank you for sticking around with me! <333

It was difficult to appreciate the lush landscape when every bend they turned held fresh battles, but that did not stop Lissa from taking note in the intermittent reprieves. Tall trees, thick with age, were covered in crawling, heavy vines that flowered where they caught the dappled sunlight. The smell of earth was heavy, the scent of blossoms sweet in the cool, humid air. The rushing of waterfalls was a constant hum beneath the delicate melodies of swaying tree limbs yawning above them, and the song was punctuated by pretty little solos of birds complaining of their homes disturbed. 

And disturbed it had been. 

With a cry, Lissa let the full force of lightning course through her arm, directed through her staff until it wracked the approaching Templar to the bones. The hot blue lightning danced over his armor, the force of it cracking the protruding shards of red lyrium. The scent of blood and electricity mingled with the sharp, clean smell of freshly turned earth as their battles carved into the ground. 

As the last attacker fell to the ground, Lissa let her mind take note of her injuries. Her bruises ached and her scrapes burned, but her mana felt stronger than ever, and her eyes had cleared as well. Even though the edges of her vision were still blurred, she was glad to have her sight back for this attack on Corypheus. (And of course, she wanted to see the Temple of Mythal with her own eyes.) 

While Cassandra and Cole bent to gather useful resources from their enemies, Lissa took stock of the plentiful earth, plucking leaves and blossoms and slipping them between the pages of her journal to be pressed. As she harvested her treasures, a tiny prick of light shone out from the ground. She plunged her fingers beneath the pliant soil and pulled out a large shard of pottery. She brushed away the moist earth that clung to the surface. Vibrant blues and greens, incredibly vivid, were fired onto the piece. Despite being broken, it was in such good condition she wondered if perhaps it was recently forgotten. 

“Inquisitor,” Solas urged, notably using her title instead of her name, “we cannot delay. We should hurry onto the Temple.” 

“Corypheus forces are plowing ahead while  _ you _ pick at trinkets,” Morrigan chided with a sneer. “Yes, let us leave the fate of the world to his clutches while you play in the dirt.”

“Thank you, Morrigan. No doubt your opinions will make them march more slowly. Perhaps you should try saying it louder so they can hear you.” She tucked the little treasure into her satchel and slung it back over her shoulder, ignoring as the witch huffed and moved closer to their warrior and rogue. “There’s just so much to see, Solas. Will you bring me back here once this is done?”

His brows knit together as his eyes peered out into the dense landscape. “I do not think our hosts appreciate our presence.” 

A chill ran up her spine just before Cole’s voice started near her. “Waiting, waking, watching.” He turned towards her, eyes wide and insistent. “They want us to leave.” 

Lissa brushed her palms together before rubbing them on her breeches. “Well, of course. We’ve done nothing but trample through this place. But if we were to come respectfully . . . do you not think we could talk with them?” She turned to Solas. “Perhaps they would not turn us out. They do not seem like Dalish to me.” 

His reply was simple and unusually short. “No, they do not.” 

“Hail, Inquisitor!” A lusty voice rang round the bend. 

Lissa turned, squinting her eyes and meeting the salute with a nod. “Hail and well met, Captain. What news have you for us?” 

The bulk of Corypheus’ forces are just ahead, as is the Temple, Your Worship. Whatever he has planned, they are ignoring our attacks and heading straight towards it.” 

“Then we cannot waste any time,” Cassandra added, eyes narrowing on the way ahead of them. 

“Thank you, Captain. I know we can count on you,” Lissa added with a grin, knowing that her words were more powerful than they should have been as he stood straighter, gathering his fist over his heart with a religious devotion. 

“Of course, Your Worship. We will make sure your path is secured. Andraste be with you.” 

She nodded. “And the Maker with you.” 

She did not let her shoulders droop or face slack until he had disappeared into the tangle of trees. She met each of her companion’s gaze and allowed the space of a slow inhale fill the silence. “I don’t know what we’re going to find up ahead, but I know this: I’m glad you are here with me.” She tried not to let her eyes linger too long on Solas, but there was . . . something behind the grey steele in his eyes. He was closed, distant, and it unsettled her. Instead, she turned to Morrigan, certain anything she had to offer would put the thought from her mind. “What will we be faced with? How can we prevent him from activating the eluvian?” 

The witch crossed her arms, and her golden eyes, too much like her own, met her gaze with a hardened edge and an intelligent brightness. “Though I cannot pretend to know what goes through his mind, mad as he is, I do know that he will need a key, someway to unlock the eluvian before it is useful to him. Otherwise, it might as well be any other looking glass.” 

Lissa hummed in thought. “So we may not halt or prevent his approach to the eluvian, but we may yet make it useless to him. What could this key be?” 

Morrigan shrugged. “I do not know, but I can guess the clues will be somewhere in the Temple. As carelessly as they forge ahead, they are surely not looking for the key. That may the answer to stopping Corypheus.” 

 

*    *    * 

 

The gates to the Temple were impossibly large, both in height and thickness. How did Corypheus even manage to get them open? Or had they simply been left that way by careless occupants thousands of years ago? Or, perhaps, were they not considered a necessity with these ‘guardians’ that kept fighting them off? A tingle crept along her skin. The hum of magic in them was still very much alive. The inlaid metal was shining and untarnished, and the engravings were crisp and clear, far too distinct for something that should be thousands of years old. As she hummed, she ran the pad of one finger along the scrollwork. There was gold, and another metal that seemed to sing. Magic suddenly stirred beneath her touch, and she pulled back. 

“This place is thousands of years old, and yet . . . it appears to have been standing for not more than a generation.” She stepped backward and craned her neck to study the entrance. “If it weren’t for the growth of the flora, you wouldn’t know this place is aged. It’s as if . . .” her eyes narrowed, and she let the aura of the place soak into her skin, letting it tingle, “ . . . as if magic has somehow protected it from the effects of time. What do you make of it, Solas?” She was careful to watch him curiously, but not obviously. 

Again, he avoided her gaze. “Perhaps,” was his simple reply. “As fascinating as it is, I must advise that we have no time to waste.” 

Morrigan stepped forward, eyes holding as much curiosity as her own, but with a hoarder's glint. “The magics here are . . . incredibly old.” She shook her head in awe. “The power of those who cast it . . . “

“Must be god-like indeed,” Lissa mused quietly. 

Noises beyond them gave them all pause. “That sounds like fighting ahead,” Lissa whispered. 

With her heart in her throat, Lissa motioned to the others, and they made careful, quiet steps towards the innermost part of the Temple courtyard. 

Slowly, they crept towards the ledge, overlooking into the temple courtyard where just below them stood a host of corrupted Wardens and Red Templars, the jagged bits of lyrium protruding from their skin. In front of them stood a handful of the curious Elves, dressed in their matching armor, and holding a position at the end of a long bridge that connected to the inner Temple. And then, in the center, was  _ him _ , Corypheus. Lissa felt her chest twist and her hand spasm beneath the mark. 

One of the elves, a mage by the staff on his back, dared to step forward, a snarl on his lips. “ _ Na melana sur banallen! _ ” he spat. 

Lissa frowned curiously and whispered a question. “ _ Banallen _ . . . the people of nothing? Is that a term for darkspawn?”

“ _ Hush! _ ” Morrigan urged in hushed tones. “I cannot seriously believe you would ask for grammar lessons at a time like this.” 

Lissa grimaced. “It’s  _ vocabulary _ . My Elven grammar is just  _ fine _ , thank you.”

Morrigan made to reply, but the rumbling voice of Corypheus echoed up to them. 

“These here who would try to stop us are but remnants. They cannot stop us. I will have the Well of Sorrows.” 

“Well of Sorrows?” Lissa echoed, shooting a glance at Morrigan who simply shrugged. 

What was going? What new piece just entered the playing field? And why did the Elves look so confident with so few barring the gap between their enemies and the Temple? 

Corypheus stepped forward, and clutched the elf’s throat and hoisting him into the air. His victim flailed and clawed at his hand, gasping for breath. Lissa stood, staff at the ready, hoping to do something when suddenly

_ CRACK! _

A suddenly jolt of energy shot out from the statues on either side of Corypheus, flooding his body with magic that had even Lissa’s heart stuttering. The air felt sharp, and an astringent tang burned her nose. The magic seared through his flesh, melting it off the bone. The light in his body grew brighter until Lissa’s eyes could bear it no more. A boom shook the courtyard, and when Lissa looked up, Corypheus’ bones lay in a steaming pile of cooked flesh and fabric. 

_ What happened? _

Her mind felt numb, and before her thoughts could fall into the tracks, Samson and the remaining survivors were charging ahead across the bridge, a look of glib success turning his face as he stepped over the bodies of the elves. 

As the backs of the enemies slipped inside, Lissa stood, leading them down to the center of the incident. 

They were all dead. Bodies lay scattered away from the blast, still and silent. Lissa looked to each of her companions, certain her face mirrored their stunned expressions. All except for Solas’, that is, whose face seemed fixed with an expression of taciturn annoyance. 

The stillness seemed too fragile, and as she walked down towards the bridge, each piece of rubble that crunched beneath her boot seemed to snap like lightning, each ragged, tight inhale were a rumble of thunder. 

“What was that?” Cassandra dared to speak, the edges of her whisper too sharp. 

“I . . . I don’t know,” Morrigan admitted, and somewhere a small part of Lissa enjoyed how stunned the witch was at her own bewilderment. 

“It would seem that Corypheus is dead,” Lissa mused quietly, gingerly stepping over the slumped corpse of a Red Templar, “but it would not be the first time we thought that. The look on Samson’s face was not reassuring.” 

“We should hurry into the Temple,” Solas urged, eyes fixed on the path ahead. “If not, Samson and his men may acquire what they seek.” 

As Lissa turned to make for the bridge, a squelching sound bid her freeze. It was a grotesque, indecent noise, with popping and gurgling and the sound of snapping bone. With the scent of charred flesh in the air, it was enough to make her stomach flop. They turned, carefully, with looks of horror on their face as one of the dead Wardens shuddered and twitched upright. The bones inside the corpse moved erratically, crunching and grinding until it sat up in a grotesque shape. It convulsed, and Lissa jumped back with a start as tainted, black blood spewed from its mouth. And then, beyond all reason, a misshapen arm emerged from its form. 

Morrigan gasped beside her. “It is not possible!” 

Lissa took a step back, then another, until she bumped into Cole. “Run,” she offered too meekly. “Run!” she finally managed. “Across the bridge!”

They ran. 

Lissa chest burned with exertion as they sped across the open, unprotected bridge, leaping over bodies like the most gangly sprinters. Above the thundering of her pulse, a chilling shriek sounded overhead. 

“His dragon is here,” Cole offered, half hovering alongside them in the wraith-like form he had mastered. 

“We must get inside!” Solas urged. 

Spurned by the dragon at their heels, they dashed inside, just as a single, sizzling fireball was lobbed through the doors. The heat of it licked the sweat from her skin and burned her eyes. Without a command, everyone turned towards the door, digging their shoulders into the great monolithic doors and shoving with all they had. Her boots fought to get traction, slipping out on the old, dusty floor beneath her. She groaned, pushing with everything she had. It moved, just a bit, and with one final heave, the pair of doors shut, cutting off a stream of fire from Corypheus’ pet before they were all caught in flame. 

A tingle went up her spine as a spell of some was activated in the doors. Through her short breaths, she managed, “Perhaps that will force him to another entrance.” 

“It just might,” Solas added, “and it may yet buy us some time.” 

Lissa looked around, taking stock of each member and sighing in relief. “Well,” she mused aloud, “that was . . . unusual. Anyone care to theorize?” 

“He came back to life!” Cassandra gasped. “We clearly saw him die. So it seems Varric was telling the truth, then,” she added softly. 

“And he came back from someone Blighted. Can we assume that is why the Grey Wardens just imprisoned him? Maybe . . . maybe they knew it was possible?” 

Morrigan nodded slowly. “And perhaps that is why he needed them at his side. Every Blighted body is an opportunity for him to regenerate. And now he will continue on his plan.” 

“A plan that, admittedly, does not seem to involve an eluvian.” Lissa added, raising her brows toward the witch. 

Cassandra crossed her arms. “We are out here on your theory that Corypheus hunts an eluvian, but he said he was after a ‘Well of Sorrows.’ Which is right?” 

Morrigan stammered, scratching the side of her scalp. “I . . . do not know to which he referred.” 

Well, that was not good news. Morrigan the ‘expert’ did not know what it was, and Lissa certainly had not heard of it. “Solas, in your studies of the Fade, have your heard of what this Well of Sorrows is?”

He shook his head. “The Well of Sorrows . . . in Elvish, it would be translated as  _ vir’abelasan _ . I’ve heard no mention of it in my dreams. But this I know; this place deals with old and powerful magic. However you choose to pursue it, I must ask that you tread carefully.” His voice stammered just so. It was so little that she was perhaps the only one to recognize it. But paired with a subtle flicker of doubt beneath the steely surface of his eyes, she knew: he worried for her. What more was he not telling her?

Lissa sighed. “It is clear that if Corypheus wants it, we must stop him from having it. But I have no idea what it is and no clues on how to look for it.” She paused, considering the expressions on Solas and Morrigan’s faces. They were guarded, temperate.  _ Careful _ . “Well, I suppose the only thing we can do is proceed further into the Temple. And have a care,” she urged, towards the Seeker and Cole, “this place is older than some of our familial lines, and there is a deep-seated magic at work.” She could feel it in the ground, humming beneath the earth like blood pumping through veins. 

 

There was a strange sense of watchfulness the further they progressed through the Temple. Lissa had to keep reminding herself not to yield to the urge to look over her shoulder and search for the eyes she so keenly felt. It was as if the walls were sentient, keeping track of her every move. 

_ Or perhaps there was an audience after all _ . 

The meditations proved to be her favorite. “This puzzle must have been a sort of . . . assessment of those wishing to seek Mythal’s audience,” Morrigan mused. 

Lissa’s brows furrowed as she studied the raised set of puzzled tiles, curious as to the sense of life that slept beneath it.  _ I wonder . . . _ Gingerly, she tapped the toe of her boot to the tile. It lit up, and a clear, pure tone droned, filling the entire room with the note. There was an energy in the note that stirred to life, resonating with the mana inside of her. It was familiar, and reminded her of . . . 

“A spell!” she exclaimed. Upon meeting the confused looks from Morrigan and Cassandra, she grinned brightly. “It feels like a spell.” She turned to Morrigan and Solas, eager to explain what she meant. “I think that magic reminds me of music. Maybe it’s just because I can’t see well, but it feels as if each spell has a . . . a  _ resonance _ of it’s own. Solas, you know of what I speak, yes?” 

He nodded, a hint of warmth in his eyes. “I do.” 

She grinned, bringing her eyes back to Morrigan. “These tiles feel a lot like that. I suspect that this is less of a challenge, and more of a . . . meditation. If Mythal was a goddess of justice, then there could potentially be a lot of disgruntled followers wanting to seek her vengeance. Perhaps this was a means of restoring an . . . inner balance, giving seekers a chance to cool their heads and consider the issue.” She tapped her chin absently. “Or perhaps it is just a ritual to remind us of how we are all connected, in a way.” She shrugged. “I don’t know the motive, but I am fairly certain I know how it works.” 

Morrigan’s brows raised with a hint of a challenge. “Well, then, _ please _ ; test your theory, Inquisitor.” Her hand  outstretched towards the raised platform with a challenging invitation.

Lissa stepped back, removing herself from the tiles and pondering the possible paths that lay before her. She chewed on her lip, tapping her foot as she considered it, all the while ignoring the intermittent huffs of her magical advisor. 

She nodded. “Alright. Wait here.” 

With each successful step on the tiles, a note played, pure and clear, that blended with the tone before it. The further along she progressed, more the sound and energy buzzed about the room. It was a bit of a puzzle to find the right path, though not too difficult. It was just testing enough to require that each step was considered, and in that, she felt the ritual was a valuable lesson. Nothing here could be hurried. Carefully, step by step in a constant but sure rhythm ( _ Not unlike a heartbeat _ , she mused), she flowed through the ritual, finally stepping off the last tile as a file chord sounded, and the entire panel glowed. 

She turned, looking back at the her group with a bit of a squint. Morrigan seemed perturbed but in her eyes, a hint of curiosity shone. Lissa tried not to preen too much, but she did allow herself to stand a little straighter. Solas’ expression was . . . hard to read. There was pride at the upturned corner of his lips, pleasure at how well she had performed. But there was a sadness in his eyes that made her stomach turn. Her throat tightened and she swallowed past it. What was going on with him? 

Suddenly, the groaning of something large shifting in the distance sounded. Cole disappeared, and reappeared a moment later at her side, almost startling her. 

“A door has opened,” he stated solemnly. 

“So the puzzles open other areas of the Temple?” Morrigan mused. 

“Doors that may lead us to the Well faster than Corypheus’ minions can blast their way there blindly,” Lissa grinned. 

Cassandra sighed. “Perhaps there is a point to this after all. Although, you should consider that we are simply getting ourselves further from our goal.” 

Lissa looked towards the direction of the sound and said a quick prayer to the Maker. “I still feel that this is the right decision. One way or another, we will stop Corypheus from getting to the  _ vir’abelasan _ .” 

 

The puzzles became increasingly more challenging, until they reached the last. “Another depiction of Fen’harel it seems,” Lissa mused with a smirk. “Would you and Solas like to theorize on it’s location  _ within _ the Temple as well, or shall we keep our arguments centered on the large statue in the courtyard?” 

Morrigan bristled, and Solas seemed slightly irritated. “Inquisitor, as interesting as it is, we do have time on our heels.” 

Lissa sighed, stepping up the platform and peering at the puzzle. 

“Why do you hesitate?” Morrigan prodded, and Lissa suspected it was the witch’s way of getting back at her. “I thought you knew how these things work.” 

Lissa shook her head. “I do.  _ Did _ . It’s . . . different. Fen’harel is a trickster, right?” 

Morrigan frowned. “A very generous way of putting it, but yes. Why?” she asked pointedly. 

“Because this puzzle has more than meets the eye . . .” Lissa made her across the large tiles, each springing up blue behind her. She carefully turned this way and that, weaving across the stage in a way that Morrigan shaking her head. “I do believe the Elf said we were in a hurry.” 

“Hush,” Lissa chided. “I have to think.” She skipped a few tiles before making it to a small island of engraved stone. It did not glow or tone with the press of her sole, but neither did the trail she had made disappear.  _ Another part of the puzzle then _ . She traced her steps again, and closed her eyes, finishing out the last part of the journey in her mind. But there were several tiles closed off by a gate, and she knew if she stepped off the platform, the ritual would be reset. 

She sighed, finally sitting down on the ground, cross-legged as she thought. 

“Oh, wonderful,” Morrigan muttered. “Shall we all take a nap, Inquisitor, while Corpheus marches to the Well?” 

“Hold your tongue, Morrigan,” Cassandra interjected. Lissa would have to thank her later. “She has gotten us this far. You could do with a little faith.” 

Over and over Lissa made the path in her mind, but with that gate in the way, it was not possible to complete. 

_ No _ , her mind sparked with inspiration,  _ that’s what it is supposed to seem like _ . 

She stood, ignoring how they all watched her intently, and she squinted as she searched. The wall behind was covered in overgrowth, vines that had overstepped their boundaries and crawled down the floor. She pawed through, pushing aside fresh and dead leaves alike until her hands met something unyielding and cold.  _ A lever! _

She pushed. 

At the switch, the sound of old metal moving groaned, and the gates moved, slowly sinking down. Behind her, blocking where she had come, a set of bars rose and clanged shut. 

_ A-ha! _

She made her way towards the blocked tiles, weaving across them and causing the tones to fill the room. After snaking around to the lever again, she switched it, making her way back along the path she left free, finally stepping off the platform with a grin. 

“A crescent moon smile hides behind the clouds of doubt, pining, pained, pride. There’s more than meets the eye.” 

Lissa hesitated, but finally grinned. “Yes. I . . . figured there was a reason this one had the trickster god Fen’harel. It looks intimidating, but there is just a small piece of the puzzle that gives you pause. But it’s just redirection. Pretty clever, right?” She turned to Solas. 

“Clever as always,  _ vhenan _ .” Yet the tinge of sadness was still in his eyes. Was it simply being present in the lost civilization he idolized so much, or was it something else? 

Before she could dwell on it longer, another set of doors opened, ushering them in deeper. It led them in a large, open hall with several levels and basins lit with fresh flame. 

“This is . . . unexpected. What purpose would this chamber serve?” Morrigan mused, and Lissa noticed that even her steps were cautious. 

“I do not know, but I do know that braziers don’t typically light themselves.” 

All at once, a sudden energy in the room flared to life, and as if from nowhere, several dozen Elvish archers with bows drawn and trained on them. 


	43. The Gift of Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor and company finally make it to the Well of Sorrows. But will someone take the power of the well, or simply destroy it to keep it from Corypheus' grasps?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> Thank you to gerundsandcoffee on tumblr who commissioned this lovely portrait of Lissa by the artist nactuaalba!!! I LOVE IT!!!

“Do not make any sudden movements,” Lissa urged. “I don’t think they want to hurt us. I think they are . . . curious. I believe these are the  hosts that have been watching us this whole time.” She spoke in a whisper, and chose her words carefully.. Morrigan raised a brow, but made no other protest. 

Lissa stepped forward carefully, meeting eyes for a moment with the elf above her. Again, there was something distinctly different about him. Not just his garb, but his accent, as well. He shared the  _ valasslin _ of the Dalish, the marking of Mythal she recalled, but something was . . . different. 

“You . . . are not like the others that have invaded this temple.” He did not raise his voice, but his words rang all the same in the wide room. Gooseflesh broke out over her skin. “You have walked the trials, and come here at the side of one of our own. You bear the mark of magic which is . . . familiar.” He paused, looking over her with a sharp gaze. 

A drop of sweat trickled down the back of neck. It felt as though every archer had their bows leveled at her.   _ Familiar? _

“How has this come to pass?” he continued. “How are you connect to the invaders who first disturbed our slumber?” 

_Not Dalish. Slumber? Uthenera perhaps?_ There were so many pieces of the puzzle that he had touched on in his questions alone. Perhaps if she could keep him talking . . . . “ _En’an’sal’en,_ ” she offered respectfully. “We come here seeking our enemies, and we would warn you of them as well.” 

He held her gaze, his eyes of a golden hue (similar to hers, she noted), and narrowed on her in consideration. “I am called Abelas. We here are sentinels, and wake only to stand against those who trespass on this sacred ground. Our purpose is to preserve this place. Our numbers diminish with each invasion.” He started pacing now, not looking at her as he came to his conclusion. “It is all too obvious why you are here. You seek the  _ vir’abelasan,  _ just as everyone else before you.” 

The well! “No, that’s not -” She bit back her hasty reply and bowed. “ _ Sathan, Abelas.  _ Listen to what we have to say. When we first arrived, we had no way of knowing that there were still living occupants of this Temple. We are unintentional trespassers, but still trespassers all the same. For that, I apologize. However,” She straightened and looked him in the eyes, “we came here only to  _ protect  _ what is here! The men you’ve seen here before wish to take what is here. If they succeed, they  _ will  _ destroy everything you’ve ever known or cared for.” Her stomach twisted, visions of that terrible future replaying in her head. It was not an idle threat she made, and for what it was worth, Abelas did not seem to take it vainly. But perhaps he would accept more counsel. “Solas, is there nothing you have to say?” she asked quietly and a little too sharply. 

“Wh-” he started aghast, a scowl of irritation on his face. “What would you have me say, Inquisitor? Do you expect a few of my words to sway a man from a millennia of servitude simply because of our shared blood?” 

Her jaw clenched. Of course  _ now  _ he had nothing to say. Of course he would use her title again, instead of her name. He was distancing himself from her, and he had been ever since - no, she could not think of this now. There was too much at stake. 

Solas looked at neither of them. His final comment was sad, and held too much emotion. “He clings to all that remains of his world, because he lacks the power to restore it.” 

Lissa kept her gaze on him for a few moments longer than was necessary, hoping for more. But he did not meet her eyes, stubbornly keeping his gaze fixed on the intricate tile work, his brows tipped in grief. For all he was not saying, he seemed to want to say quite a lot. She took in a deep breath and made a mental note to talk him about it later. 

“Abelas, are you -” She paused, collected her thoughts. “ Are you saying that you are Elves from before the time that Arlathan is recorded to have fallen by the hands of the Tevinter Imperium?” That would make him - or rather, all here - impossibly old. 

His brows creased. “It was not the  _ shemlen  _ that destroyed Arlathan. We Elvhen warred upon ourselves. By the time the doors to this sanctuary closed, our time was over.” 

It . . .  _ what?  _ Lissa found her words failing her. “I - I don’t understand. That is not what we have been told. I - you were  _ there?”  _

He nodded. Though he continued to grace her with answers, he did not seem particularly engaged in their conversation. More than anything, he seemed tired. When he replied, there was a sharp sense of boredom in his words. “I was. How would you know truth?  _ Shemlen  _ history comes up as short as the span of your lives.” 

Her chest stung at the purposeful jab. But she pressed forward, hoping for more information. “Wait, I - I have so many questions. You’ve already been too gracious up to now in answering.” Yet, a part of her  wondered if that was because they planned on killing them anyway. 

“That much is true; you already have your lives. For now.” Again, she was reminded of the difference between the elves she had known and this . . . this Elvhen who had lived for so long. She did not doubt that he was just as capable now as he had been back in the high days of Arlathan. “Tread carefully with further questions.” 

Swallowing heavily, she nodded. “I understand. I understand that there is so, so much that I  _ don’t  _ understand, and I wish to. But -” her words faded in a sharp sigh as she mentally cursed, “there is no time. We stop those men that came before us or all is lost.”

“We are capable of stopping them without your aid. How do I know that you would not bespoil that which we seek to protect?” 

She shook her head. “I don’t entirely know what you mean.” 

His annoyance grew. “Each time we wake, the world is more foreign than the last. It is meaningless. We are only meant to endure. We must preserve the  _ vir’abelasan _ .”

Lissa dropped her head, images of a world gone mad flashing before her eyes. She could empathize with that, at least “I - I know what it is like to step into a world unlike anything you’ve ever known, to see the pain of loss. I know the heaviness of the guilt of absence and wishing you could have done  _ something _ to  _ change  _ it.” She had not the time to explain why or how it haunted her days, but she hoped the tone in her voice revealed her sincerity. “If there is anything that I want to do today, it is protect things before they are lost. Forever.” 

There was a quiet silence between them for a while with only the crackling braziers breaking the stillness. When she dared to meet his gaze, there was a question in his eyes as he gazed down at her, but it remained unspoken. 

“We did not come here to fight you,” she continued, adjusting her grip on her staff, before easing the fingers of one hand away.“And we have no desire to steal from your temple.” She reached into her pouch and closed her fingers around the sharp edges she found. “I discovered this on the way here. It is a broken trinket, but I now know that there are those who wish to preserve it. I simply admired it.” Sinking to her knees, she placed the broken piece of pottery on the floor. 

“Inquisitor!” Morrigan chided, apparently unable to remain silent any longer. 

But Lissa did not answer. “I humbly ask for your forgiveness on behalf of my assumptions, and I am willing to pay what fine you deem worthy in judgement of my theft.” 

As she remained in her pose of supplication, she swore she heard the creak of bowstrings. Were they moving to execute her over a piece of pottery? 

“Rise, Inquisitor,” Abelas said her title with too much emphasis. “Some might find your admission . . . insulting. But from what I have observed throughout this sanctuary, I believe you. You are indeed trespassers, but you followed the rites of petition, and you have shown respect unto Mythal.” Lissa lifted her gaze and stood, leaving the piece of pottery on the floor. Abelas looked down at her with his arms crossed, waiting. “We shall help you destroy these enemies of yours, and, when it is over, you will be permitted to depart peacefully, provided you never return.” 

She took in a sharp breath. Never return? But - but there was so much here!  _ They  _ were here, and they knew so much. They had the truth and yet - her shoulders sank. She might have tried to convince them otherwise, but they had no time. 

Solas dared to speak first. “Is this not our goal? We have no reason to fight these sentinels.” 

“Think carefully, Inquisitor. You may need that well in the end,” Morrigan added with a harsh whisper. 

Lissa clenched her jaw. “I did not come here to make enemies. We are grateful for whatever help you are willing to give. We have no right to ask anymore.” 

“Inquisitor,  _ please!”  _ Morrigan started, but Lissa held up a hand to silence her. 

“Very well,” Abelas answered, turning towards a large doorway. “One of us will guide you to your enemies. You will not wander this place alone, unescorted. You will follow quickly and closely.” He started to walk through the doorway and paused. “You may take your trinket.”

Lissa’s chest lightened. “ _ Serannasan ma*, Abelas,”  _ she offered, bending down to quickly pluck the piece of broken pottery and return it to her pouch. The expression he gave her was . . . hard to read, but she hoped that the tilt to his lips was nearing a grin and not something more devilish. It was quick to vanish either way.

“ A s you make your way to the enemies,  _ I  _ will ensure the  _ vir’abelasan  _ will never be spoiled,” he added with a dark tone as he disappeared within the shadows of the  doorway. 

“What? No!” Morrigan instantly transformed into a crow and took off after the ancient elf. 

“Morrigan!” Lissa yelled, but it was already too late. 

 

The winding halls through the temple begged more and more questions, and it twisted Lissa’s heart that she should see this now and never have an answer to them. “It makes me sad,” she mused aloud, trying to take in as much detail as she could as they followed their guide. 

Though she had not expected a response, she found she was glad when Solas glanced in her direction and asked: “Why?” 

“Because they have knowledge and are keeping it locked away to themselves.” She thought of the broken shard in her pouch and exhaled heavily. “I’ve only spoken to Abelas a few moments, but have since realized that a major foundation of our history is a lie. What other truths might I learn if I had but a moment more, or a chance to return?” 

“Perhaps he is afraid,” he offered, his tone still distant. “Afraid that what knowledge he has to offer would be turned away, afraid that he would not be accepted for what he is.” 

Something in his words gave her pause. Solas was often evasive or offered answers with double meaning. She attributed it to his scholarly habits, that he was forcing the recipient to actually think about the information and practice reasoning. But something seemed . . . different. “Some might, certainly. But how could he be certain unless he tried?” 

“Then perhaps he is fearful.” 

“If that is the case, then, I shall endeavor to make a better impression while we are here so that, perhaps someday, I might change his mind.” Had she not always been this careful. Surely Solas knew that she wanted to preserve all that she could - to  _ learn _ all that she could.

But he did not say another word until they made it to the well. 

 

There was a sudden flare of magic that sent shivers across her skin. A pillar of sparks erupted, and suddenly, Abelas was standing there, a snarl on his lips as he raced toward the well. 

A crow - Morrigan! - came flying after him. He sprinted faster. As he did, a series of stones piled up beneath him in a walkway. Was this some sort of enchantment, or a spell of his own doing? With no time to consider it, they bolted after him. Lissa leg’s were still burning from the fight and the long hours of trekking through the forest, but she  _ had  _ to know what was going on. 

As she made it to the top just behind him, Morrigan flew down and cut him off from the well. Her form shifted, feathers fluttering wildly until she was standing, feet firmly planted, an angry twist to her features. “You heard what he said, Inquisitor!” she bellowed passionately, arms outstretched as if she were guarding it. “He would destroy this!” 

Lissa heart pounded in her chest as her lungs desperately worked to get enough air. “I . . . I don’t understand.” 

“You need not.” Abelas took a step back, a scowl on his face as he looked between them both. “So this sanctum is despoiled at last.” 

It stung a little. Was standing here, in defense of the very same sacred place, truly so awful? She had not even touched the well, let alone disturbed it. 

Morrigan growled, her eyes flashing with obvious anger. “What drivel! You would have destroyed it yourself if we hadn’t stopped you.” 

Lissa frowned. “What?” 

“Yes, I would have. And happily.” Abelas’ lips curled in a sneer. “To keep it from your greedy fingers! Better to have it lost than to have it granted to those who are undeserving!”

Another insult, but more offensive was that he would destroy it entirely. “Just . . . just  _ stop!”  _ she demanded, pressing her fingers to her temples. Her first words were directed to the Elvhen sentinel, her tone equal parts pleading and forceful. “If there is a way to preserve it, why in Thedas is your first solution to be to destroy it? For as old as you are, you seem incredibly impulsive.” 

“It would be better than having it -”

“‘Bespoiled.’” She managed to hide her wince at having interrupted. Was she the only one who saw this entire scenario objectively? “Yes, I heard you the first time. But perhaps if you could just -” 

“Inquisitor,  _ time  _ is of the essence.” Morrigan apparently did not mind interrupting at all. “We do not have time to reason with an ancient elf who clearly has no intention of changing his mind!” 

Lissa bit her tongue, her immediate response one of scathing frustration. She was at the end of her patience, and though she kept her voice low, she made it clear that she had enough. “Morrigan. Interrupt me one more time, and the punishment will not be pleasant.  _ I  _ seek to understand because it is what is  _ right.  _ This will not be a decision I make without at least  _ trying!”  _

Morrigan appeared perturbed, but eventually relaxed her protective stance. 

_ Good,  _ Lissa thought.  _ Hopefully she starts to take me seriously sooner than later.  _ Now, she turned her full attention toward the elf. “Abelas, if Corypheus comes here, he will use the power of this well - whatever that entails - to alter the world into a living nightmare, and I promise it is more horrible than anything you’ve yet to wake to. I know, because I’ve  _ seen  _ it. I have sworn on my life to prevent that future from happening, but I  _ need  _ to know what I’m dealing with here.” 

He gradually straightened, his gaze shifting from hers to Solas, and then back. “There is nothing more I will tell you, only that  _ yes,  _ there is a great power here, a power that will be severely underutilized in your hands.” 

She held back a frown. “And literally world-destroying in Corypheus’.” 

“If I may, Inquisitor?” Morrigan started, at least asking permission this time. “We know what the historians say, what the journals of Corypheus’ advisors recorded. If he wants it that badly, it could be the key to finally stopping him. You  _ must  _ not let it be destroyed.” 

Lissa crossed her arms. “And what would you propose, Morrigan?” 

“I propose you let me drink from it and -”  Morrigan gave an expression of feigned injury as Lissa rolled her eyes. “I am serious! I have devoted my  _ life  _ to studying this and -”

“And yet you still had no idea that this well was even in existence until we arrived here. You have no idea what you’d be dealing with, and you lack just as much understanding as I do. Were you to be granted its powers, I doubt that you would be able to use it to its full extent.” 

Her raven  brows furrowed even as her shoulders rose in anger. “I am the best equipped to make use of the knowledge here!” 

Solas made a noise from behind her, but said nothing. 

“At what cost?” Lissa insisted.

But no one answered. 

Drawing in a deep breath, Lissa only now realized that her head was aching, throbbing from her temples down to the base of her neck. Time was not something they had in abundance and yet a single decision here could alter the entire future. How could she possibly decide with Corypheus’ men closing in on them with each wasted second? 

At last, she turned to Solas. “Is there nothing you have researched in the Fade that could aid me in making a decision?” she asked softly. He had been uncharacteristically distant since they arrived, and she had no idea if it were because of their new relationship, or if had to do with their surroundings. Either way, she was uncomfortable. She was quite used to his input and relied on it heavily. That he should withhold it now unsettled her. 

“It is risky,” he said, voice more strained than she thought necessary. “I do not wish to see it destroyed, but I do not wish to see  _ her  _ drink from the well of sorrows. She has the look of a glutton before a feast.” 

“Then, why not you, Solas?” 

He took a step back as if struck. “No - no, I cannot. Please, do not ask me again.” 

She shook her head, hiding how his reaction pained her. “Then . . . .” She wheeled around, staring at the three people who should have the most knowledge about this place, and yet  _ none  _ were willing to give her more information. Frustration burned in her, bright and brittle. “Then I will do it,” she said through clenched teeth. 

“No!” Morrigan and Solas urged in unison. 

“Please,  _ vhenan,  _ you can’t.” He took a step closer, his brows tilted in genuine concern. Abelas gave a side-eyed look at his spoken endearment, but Lissa ignored it. She was aor more concerned for the cause of Solas’ vehement demand. 

“But _why._ ” She allowed her own emotions to seep into her voice. “I need to know! You said yourself the gods were not really deities. Why should I be concerned with being bound to something that never existed? And I don’t trust Morrigan with it any more than you do.” She felt the witch glaring at her, but she was easily ignored. “But neither of you are willing to give me additional information!” Forcing herself forward, she  reached out to clutch his hand and squeezed it tightly between her own. “Solas, your opinion is the one I value the most.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “But you’ve been so . . . so closed. Is there nothing more you will tell me about this?” She did not care that her voice had softened to quiet begging. 

Pain flickered across his features as he pulled his hand away and took a step back. “I . . . there is nothing more I can tell you. I’m sorry,  _ vhenan.  _ I ask only that, for me, you not do this.” 

Lissa blinked away her tears.  Lowering her hands, she walked toward Morrigan and the well. 

“Inquisitor,” Morrigan ground out through her teeth; Lissa felt her jaw clench in preparation for her rebuttal, and she quickened her pace without thought. “You cannot be serious! I’ve spent my entire life preparing for something like this! You play with the elvish language and suddenly play with an elven lover and think you can make use of an entire history of -”

The crack of sound of skin meeting skin was jarring in the relative tranquility of the well. Morrigan’s stunned face was still half pink from the sudden slap she had received. Lissa’s hand stung, and she hoped that Morrigan’s face stung at least half as much. 

“Do not address my relationships,” she said with more calm than she felt. “You have no right to make such observations. And stop pretending like I am an ignorant fool, Morrigan. You seek to play all of us as pieces to your own desires, and have no idea how sickeningly obvious your greed is. You are my advisor. When I want  your opinion, I will ask.”

A vein  bulged along Morrigan’s temple as she worked her jaw. “I understand,” she offered tightly, her distaste burning in her eyes - eyes that were too golden and annoyingly similar. 

“And I promise you this:” Lissa continued. “I will  _ never  _ ask for your opinion about my relationship with Solas, or anyone else. Do not make the mistake of offering your opinion freely, or you will find yourself without employ.” 

The tension in the air was tight. Cassandra and Varric stood far too still, and Cole’s slender frame shrunk to the rear. The only parties that seemed suddenly interested were Abelas and Solas, both of whom stared at her with a measure of curiosity and shock.

“You don’t even understand what you want,” Abelas finally offered, walking next to her and looking down across the shallow pool. “As each servant of Mythal reached the end of their years, they would pass their knowledge on . . . through this.” He turned to her, a sad declaration in his eyes. “All that we were, all that we knew - it would be lost forever.” 

She looked back over the water and watched a slightly breeze lick up small ripples that threw back glittering flecks of gold light. “I do not mean this as harshly as it seems, but look around you, Abelas. What your people were . . . it’s already gone. I’m sorry.” 

True pain darkened his gaze as he turned back to the water. In a low tone, he replied simply: “It is.” 

Her heart twisted within her. What it must be like to have your people, your culture, everything you cared for gone! “If I could help . . .  _ ir’abelas, lethallin. _ ” 

He looked at her for a moment with an expression she finally decided was shock. 

“There are other places, friend.” Ah, so Solas finally did have something to say. “Other duties. Your people yet linger.”  

Abelas looked at him with one eyebrow crooked. “ _ Elvhen  _ such as you?” 

Solas nodded. “Yes. Such as I.” 

Lissa side-eyed the pair curiously. _ An interesting emphasis. _ Abelas sighed, and it seemed to her he had just resigned himself to something. “In the past, those who drank from the  _ vir’abelasan _ paid a high price, more than you could know. They would be bound to the service of Mythal for eternity.” 

“I see.” As Lissa looked down at the water, she felt - no, nearly  _ heard  _ it whispering to her, drawing her closer. It was more than a little unsettling, but she would be lying if she denied curiosity. Suddenly, a thought sparked. “It’s a geas.” 

“What?” Morrigan frowned. 

“It’s not just being bound in word or servitude. It’s a . . . compulsion, a contract that submits you to the will of another.”

“Then you do have an idea of what you are asking.” Abelas nodded slowly. “You have shown respect to Mythal, and there is a righteousness in you that I cannot deny. Is this what you desire, then? To partake of the  _ vir’abelasan _ , and, as best you can, use it to defeat your enemy?” 

She held his gaze. “If I am permitted.” 

“It is not a matter of who obtains permission. It is a matter of who claims the right.” He turned from her, looking down at the well once more. “I do not know if this is something that a mortal can even survive.” 

Lissa looked down to her palm. “It would not be the first time the burden of impossible, world-saving magic was left to me and I survived.” 

“You are . . . unusual,  _ shemlen,  _ and you keep unexpected company. Brave it if you must, and endure the will of Mythal.” 

Morrigan snickered. “Endure the will of a goddess who no longer exists, if she ever did? ‘Tis a pointless sentiment.” 

Lissa attempted to smooth over her verbose advisor once again. “Is it . . . somehow possible that Mythal still exists?”

Abelas took the questioning in cool stride. “Anything is possible.” 

The rustle of the leaves whispered on the gentle breeze, but it carried on it the sinister scent of rotted flesh and the sharp tint of red lyrium. They had to hurry. 

“According to Elven legend, the records are that Mythal was tricked by the god Fen’harel, banished to the beyond. If she does still exist, if she ever did, there is no reason to believe that any of her power remains,” Morrigan added.

Abelas replied with a cool expression, his amber eyes even and unsurprised. “Then your ‘Elven’ legend is wrong. The Dread Wolf had nothing to do with her murder.” 

She blinked. “What?” She met Morrigan’s gaze, noting the similar shock in her own gold-colored eyes. “Murder?” 

“I - I said nothing about murder,” Morrigan corrected, her curiosity clearly as heightened as Lissa’s own. 

“Mythal was slain.” His expression was purposefully empty. “That is, if a goddess truly can be. Those that destroyed this temple betrayed her. And yet . . . the  _ vir’abelasan  _ remains, as do we sentinels.” He took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. “That is something.” 

“Indeed it is. I am truly sorry -”She stopped as he turned and walked away.

“ _ Lethallin _ ,” Solas called to Abelas’ retreating frame. “You do not need to remain idle. There is a place for you, should you seek it.” 

“Perhaps there  _ are  _ places the  _ shemlen  _ have not touched.” 

Lissa once again felt offended, but she did recall that legend stated that it was the appearance of humans that had sickened Elves into losing their immortality. It never made any sense to her, and she figured it was historical poetry more than actual record. But if this ancient elf and others were seeking a place away from humans, perhaps there were merits to it after all. 

“Abelas, you do not have to leave.” If only she could offer him a place. “This world, my world, is unfamiliar to you. Your world is unfamiliar to me. We could trade information. It could help make a difference. I could help you, if you’re willing to let me try.” 

He turned as she spoke, considering her for a moment before he finally shook his head. “Should our paths cross again, I would consider sharing tales. For now, my path leads me elsewhere.” 

Lissa nodded, despite the urge to frown and sigh. Was this all she could do? 

“ _ Malas amelin ne halam, Abelas.”  _

Lissa’s brows knitted together, wondering why Solas would have offered him such a parting. The sentinel did not seem to think it odd, but inclined his head, and retreated silently down the hillside until she could no longer make out his form. 

Solas and the other others drew closer now that they were alone. “His name, Abelas, means ‘sorrow.’ I told him that I hope he finds a new one.” 

She paused, blinking once. That is not what it had sounded like to her. And why would he go to the trouble of translating only now? She was capable enough of understanding the gist of his words. All throughout the temple, he had been reluctant to answer her questions about ancient Elvhen, or even more insulting, he had answered only in partials even though she  _ knew  _ he knew better. He had been acting very strangely ever since their arrival here, and much as she hated to admit it, it only made her want to drink from the well more. Between Solas’ suspicious behavior and Morrigan’s voracious greed, there seemed no better option anyway. 

“Is this really what you must do?” Cassandra finally offered, breaking the silence between them. “You are the Inquisitor. If something should happen to you . . . .” 

“Then there would be capable hands to continue its work. I am, afterall, just a figurehead. The real gears and oil are everyone else. I have no doubt it would thrive and continue to succeed.” She summoned an encouraging grin, but the woman simply nodded with gravity. 

“You underestimate yourself, Inquisitor. It is a habit you possess,” Solas said with false mirth, a lifeless chuckle serrating his words. “You are the pinnacle of every move your organization makes. The soldiers look to you for the will to fight.” 

She straightened. “Then I simply refuse to die.” Her answer was quick and final. Solas’ lips thinned and he dipped a bit at the waist, taking several steps back away from the well as if by simply being near it he was at risk of being possessed. 

Lissa met the gaze of each of her companions. “With what knowledge I have, limited as it is, and with as little time as we are given, I believe this to be the best choice. I will drink from the well, and its consequences will be mine alone.” She took a deep breath, ignored the flutter of indecision, and stepped inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'ALL. I'm alive!!! (Although some days it feels like just barely.) Since my last update, (which was when I was caught up fostering my niece) my husband has departed for work reasons (we're fine!!!) and since then, I got a new second job, was harassed at the park, attacked by a dog, had a miscarriage, was a bridesmaid and florist for a wedding, and verbally sexually assaulted while at work. 
> 
> SO ALL THAT TO SAY I'VE BEEN A BIT BUSY. I love writing this, and I do not intend to stop. Lissa's story means a lot to me, and I do plan on continuing to share as quickly as life allows. ^_^ 
> 
> THANK YOU for sticking with me this far, and for being so patient! AND EXTRA THANKS to Seraph for editing this chapter so I could get it posted right away! <3


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